“Thursday, March 8.  Lunch. Worse and worse in morning; poor Oates’ left foot can never last out, and time over foot-gear something awful.  Have to wait in night foot-gear for nearly an hour before I start changing, and then am generally first to be ready.  Wilson’s feet giving trouble now, but this mainly because he gives so much help to others.  We did 41/2 miles this morning and are now 81/2 miles from the depot—­a ridiculously small distance to feel in difficulties, yet on this surface we know we cannot equal half our old marches, and that for that effort we expend nearly double the energy.  The great question is:  What shall we find at the depot?  If the dogs have visited it we may get along a good distance, but if there is another short allowance of fuel, God help us indeed.  We are in a very bad way, I fear, in any case.”

“Saturday, March 10. Things steadily downhill.  Oates’ foot worse.  He has rare pluck and must know that he can never get through.  He asked Wilson if he had a chance this morning, and of course Bill had to say he didn’t know.  In point of fact he has none.  Apart from him, if he went under now, I doubt whether we could get through.  With great care we might have a dog’s chance, but no more.  The weather conditions are awful, and our gear gets steadily more icy and difficult to manage....

“Yesterday we marched up the depot, Mt.  Hooper.  Cold comfort.  Shortage on our allowance all round.  I don’t know that any one is to blame.  The dogs which would have been our salvation have evidently failed.  Meares had a bad trip home I suppose.

“This morning it was calm when we breakfasted, but the wind came from the W.N.W. as we broke camp.  It rapidly grew in strength.  After travelling for half an hour I saw that none of us could go on facing such conditions.  We were forced to camp and are spending the rest of the day in a comfortless blizzard camp, wind quite foul.”

“Sunday, March 11. Titus Oates is very near the end, one feels.  What we or he will do, God only knows.  We discussed the matter after breakfast; he is a brave fine fellow and understands the situation, but he practically asked for advice.  Nothing could be said but to urge him to march as long as he could.  One satisfactory result to the discussion:  I practically ordered Wilson to hand over the means of ending our troubles to us, so that any one of us may know how to do so.  Wilson had no choice between doing so and our ransacking the medicine case.  We have 30 opium tabloids apiece and he is left with a tube of morphine.  So far the tragical side of our story.

“The sky completely overcast when we started this morning.  We could see nothing, lost the tracks, and doubtless have been swaying a good deal since—­3.1 miles for the forenoon—­terribly heavy dragging—­expected it.  Know that 6 miles is about the limit of our endurance now, if we get no help from wind or surfaces.  We have 7 days’ food and should be about 55 miles from One Ton Camp to-night, 6x7 = 42, leaving us 13 miles short of our distance, even if things get no worse.  Meanwhile the season rapidly advances.”