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 distance.

During the forenoon something was seen ahead like the tide race over a rocky ledge—­it was another ice fall stretching from East to West, and it had to be crossed, there could be no more deviation, for since Atkinson’s party turned we had been five points West of our course at times.  Alas, more wear for the runners of the sledge, which meant more labour to the eight of us, so keen to succeed in our enterprise—­soon we are in the thick of it; first one slips and is thrown violently down, then a sledge runs over the slope of a great ice wave.

The man trying to hold it back is relentlessly thrown, and the bow of the sledge crashes on to the heel of the hindermost of those hauling ahead with a thud that means “pain.”  But the victim utters no sound, just smiles in answer to the anxious questioning gaze of his comrades.

Something happened in the last half of that Christmas forenoon.  Lashly, whose 44th birthday it was, celebrated the occasion by falling into a crevasse 8 feet wide.

Our sledge just bridged the chasm with very little to spare each end, and poor Lashly was suspended below, spinning round at the full length of his harness, with 80 feet of clear space beneath him.  We had great difficulty in hauling him upon account of his being directly under the sledge.  We got him to the surface by using the Alpine rope.  Lashly was none the worse for his fall, and one of my party wished him a “Happy Christmas,” and another “Many Happy Returns of the Day,” when he had regained safety.  Lashly’s reply was unprintable.

Soon after this accident we topped the ice fall or ridge, and halted for lunch—­we had risen over 250 feet, according to aneroid; it seemed funny enough to find the barometer standing at 21 inches instead of 30.

Lunch camp, what a change.  The primus stove fiercely roaring, the men light up their pipes and talk Christmas—­dear, cheery souls, how proud Scott must have been of them; no reference to the discomforts of the forenoon march, just brightness and the nicest thoughts for one another, and for “those,” as poor Wilson unconsciously describes them, by humming:  “Keep our loved ones, now far absent, ’neath Thy care.”  After a mug of warming tea and two biscuits we strike camp, and are soon slogging on.  But the crevasses and icefalls have been overcome, the travelling is better, and with nothing but the hard, white horizon before us, thoughts wander away to the homeland—­sweet little houses with well-kept gardens, glowing fires on bright hearths, clean, snowy tablecloths and polished silver, and then the dimpled, smiling faces of those we are winning our spurs for.  Next Christmas may we hope for it?  Yes, it must be.