The lanes of open water, as foreshadowed by the water-blinks that Ferriss had noted in the morning, were frequent; alternating steadily with hummocks and pressure-ridges.  But the perversity of the ice was all but heart-breaking.  At every hour the lanes opened and closed.  At one time in the afternoon they had arrived upon the edge of a lane wide enough to justify them in taking to their boats.  The sledges were unloaded, and stowed upon the boats themselves, and oars and sails made ready.  Then as Bennett was about to launch the lane suddenly closed up.  What had been water became a level floe, and again the process of unloading and reloading had to be undertaken.

That evening Big Joe and two other dogs, Gavriga and Patsy, were shot because of their uselessness in the traces.  Their bodies were cut up to feed their mates.

“I can spare the dogs,” wrote Bennett in his journal for that day—­a Sunday—­“but McPherson, one of the best men of the command, gives me some uneasiness.  His frozen footnips have chafed sores in his ankle.  One of these has ulcerated, and the doctor tells me is in a serious condition.  His pain is so great that he can no longer haul with the others.  Shall relieve him from work during the morrow’s march.  Less than a mile covered to-day.  Meridian observation for latitude impossible on account of fog.  Divine services at 5:30 p.m.”

A week passed, then another.  There was no change, neither in the character of the ice nor in the expedition’s daily routine.  Their toil was incredible; at times an hour’s unremitting struggle would gain but a few yards.  The dogs, instead of aiding them, were rapidly becoming mere encumbrances.  Four more had been killed, a fifth had been drowned, and two, wandering from camp, had never returned.  The second dog-sled had been abandoned.  The condition of McPherson’s foot was such that no work could be demanded from him.  Hawes, the carpenter, was down with fever and kept everybody awake all night by talking in his sleep.  Worse than all, however, Ferriss’s right hand was again frostbitten, and this time Dennison, the doctor, was obliged to amputate it above the wrist.

“...  But I am no whit disheartened,” wrote Bennett.  “Succeed I must and shall.”

A few days after the operation on Ferriss’s hand Bennett decided it would be advisable to allow the party a full twenty-four hours’ rest.  The march of the day before had been harder than any they had yet experienced, and, in addition to McPherson and the carpenter, the doctor himself was upon the sick list.

In the evening Bennett and Ferriss took a long walk or rather climb over the ice to the southwest, picking out a course for the next day’s march.

A great friendship, not to say affection, had sprung up between these two men, a result of their long and close intimacy on board the Freja and of the hardships and perils they had shared during the past few weeks while leading the expedition in the retreat to the southward.  When they had decided upon the track of the morrow’s advance they sat down for a moment upon the crest of a hummock to breathe themselves, their elbows on their knees, looking off to the south over the desolation of broken ice.