The ponies were the real problem.  It was to be expected that they would be helpless and exhausted after their long and trying voyage.  Not a bit of it!  They were soon rolling about, biting one another, kicking one another, and any one else, with the best will in the world.  After two days’ rest on shore, twelve of them were thought fit to do one journey, on which they pulled loads varying from 700 to 1000 lbs. with ease on the hard sea-ice surface.  But it was soon clear that these ponies were an uneven lot.  There were the steady workers like Punch and Nobby; there were one or two definitely weak ponies like Blossom, Bluecher and Jehu; and there were one or two strong but rather impossible beasts.  One of these was soon known as Weary Willie.  His outward appearance belied him, for he looked like a pony.  A brief acquaintance soon convinced me that he was without doubt a cross between a pig and a mule.  He was obviously a strong beast and, since he always went as slowly as possible and stopped as often as possible it was most difficult to form any opinion as to what load he was really able to draw.  Consequently I am afraid there is little doubt that he was generally overloaded until that grim day on the Barrier when he was set upon by a dog-team.  It was his final collapse at the end of the Depot journey which caused Scott to stay behind when we went out on the sea-ice.  But of that I shall speak again.

Twice only have I ever seen Weary Willie trot.  We were leading the ponies now as always with halters and without bits.  Consequently our control was limited, especially on ice, but doubtless the ponies’ comfort was increased, especially in cold weather when a metal bit would have been difficult if not impossible.  On this occasion he and I had just arrived at the ship after a trudge in which I seemed to be pulling both Weary and the sledge.  Just then a motor back-fired, and we started back across that floe at a pace which surprised Weary even more than myself, for he fell over the sledge, himself and me, and for days I felt like a big black bruise.  The second occasion on which he got a move on was during the Depot journey when Gran on ski tried to lead him.

Christopher and Hackenschmidt were impossible ponies.  Christopher, as we shall see, died on the Barrier a year after this, fighting almost to the last.  Hackenschmidt, so called “from his vicious habit of using both fore and hind legs in attacking those who came near him,"[98] led an even more lurid life but had a more peaceful end.  Whether Oates could have tamed him I do not know:  he would have done it if it were possible, for his management of horses was wonderful.  But in any case Hackenschmidt sickened at the hut while we were absent on the Depot journey, for no cause which could be ascertained, gradually became too weak to stand, and was finally put out of his misery.