My right foot has gone, nearly all the toes—­two days ago I was proud possessor of best feet.  These are the steps of my downfall.  Like an ass I mixed a small spoonful of curry powder with my melted pemmican—­it gave me violent indigestion.  I lay awake and in pain all night; woke and felt done on the march; foot went and I didn’t know it.  A very small measure of neglect and have a foot which is not pleasant to contemplate.  Bowers takes first place in condition, but there is not much to choose after all.  The others are still confident of getting through—­or pretend to be—­I don’t know!  We have the last half fill of oil in our primus and a very small quantity of spirit—­this alone between us and thirst.  The wind is fair for the moment, and that is perhaps a fact to help.  The mileage would have seemed ridiculously small on our outward journey.

Monday, March 19.—­Lunch.  We camped with difficulty last night, and were dreadfully cold till after our supper of cold pemmican and biscuit and a half a pannikin of cocoa cooked over the spirit.  Then, contrary to expectation, we got warm and all slept well.  To-day we started in the usual dragging manner.  Sledge dreadfully heavy.  We are 15 1/2 miles from the depot and ought to get there in three days.  What progress!  We have two days’ food but barely a day’s fuel.  All our feet are getting bad—­Wilson’s best, my right foot worst, left all right.  There is no chance to nurse one’s feet till we can get hot food into us.  Amputation is the least I can hope for now, but will the trouble spread?  That is the serious question.  The weather doesn’t give us a chance—­the wind from N. to N.W. and -40 deg. temp, to-day.

Wednesday, March 11.—­Got within 11 miles of depot Monday night; [47] had to lay up all yesterday in severe blizzard._27_ To-day forlorn hope, Wilson and Bowers going to depot for fuel.

Thursday, March 22 and 23.—­Blizzard bad as ever—­Wilson and Bowers unable to start—­to-morrow last chance—­no fuel and only one or two of food left—­must be near the end.  Have decided it shall be natural—­we shall march for the depot with or without our effects and die in our tracks.

Thursday, March 29.—­Since the 21st we have had a continuous gale from W.S.W. and S.W.  We had fuel to make two cups of tea apiece and bare food for two days on the 20th.  Every day we have been ready to start for our depot 11 miles away, but outside the door of the tent it remains a scene of whirling drift.  I do not think we can hope for any better things now.  We shall stick it out to the end, but we are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far.

It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.

R. SCOTT.

For God’s sake look after our people.

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Wilson and Bowers were found in the attitude of sleep, their sleeping-bags closed over their heads as they would naturally close them.