aluminium cookers with the gritty snow that here lay hard and windswept.
The cookers filled and passed in, we, gathered socks, finnesko, and
putties off the clothes lines which we had rigged between the ski which
struck upright in the snow to save them from being drifted over in the
night. The indefatigable Bowers swung his thermometer in the shade until
it refused to register any lower, glanced at the clouds, made a note or
two in his miniature meteorological log book, and then blew on his
tingling fingers, noted the direction of the wind, and ran to our tent.
Inside all had lashed up their bags and converted them into seats, the
primus stove burnt with a curious low roar, and peculiar smell of
paraffin permeated the tent. By the time we had changed our footgear the
savoury smell of the pemmican proclaimed that breakfast was ready. The
meal was eaten with the same haste that had already made itself apparent.

A very short smoke sufficed, and Captain Scott gave the signal to strike
camp. Out went everything through the little round door, down came both
tents, all was packed in a jiffy on the two 12-foot sledges, each team
endeavouring to be first, and in an incredibly short space of time both
teams swung Southward, keeping step, and with every appearance of perfect
health. But a close observer, a man trained to watch over men's health,
over athletes training, perhaps, would have seem something amiss.

The two teams, in spite of the Christmas spirit, and the "Happy
Christmas" greetings, they exchanged to begin with, soon lost their
springy step, the sledges dragged more slowly, and we gazed ahead almost
wistfully.

Yes, the strain was beginning to tell, though none of us would have
confessed it. Lashly and I had already pulled a sledge of varying
weight--but mostly a loaded one--over 600 miles, and all had marched this