Oates came next, with his bunk more free of debris than anybody else’s, for he was the horse man, pure and simple, and his duties freed him from that superabundance of books, instruments, stationery, specimens, charts, and what-not with which we others had surrounded ourselves.  Any spare gear he kept in the saddle room, a specially cleared space in the stables, where he was assisted by the little Russian groom, Anton, who soon became devoted to his hard-working and capable master.  The two men, so unlike in appearance and character, etc., and such miles apart in social standing and nationality, worked shoulder to shoulder in the stables throughout the long winter night.  By the dim candle-light which illuminated our pony-shelter, one could see Oates grooming his charges, clearing up their stall, refitting their harness, and fixing up the little improvements that his quick, watchful eye continually suggested.  At the far end of his stables he had a blubber stove, where he used to melt ice for the ponies’ drinking water and cook bran mashes for his animals.  Here he would often sit and help Meares make dog pemmican out of seal meat—­they made about 8 cwt. of this sustaining preparation.

Moving along from the Chateau, Oates, Meares’s and Atkinson’s two bunks came next, Meares above and Atkinson below.  These two sleeping berths likewise were not conspicuous by any superfluity of scientific oddments, for Meares’s work took him outside of the hut as a rule, unless he was engaged in making dog harness.  Meares and Oates were the greatest friends, and these two, Atkinson, Cherry-Garrard and Bowers, were, if I remember rightly, known collectively as the Bunderlohg.  Although numerically superior to their vis-a-vis, the Ubdugs, and always ready to revile them, the Ubdugs kept their end up and usually came out victorious in discussions or in badinage.

Finally, the Holy of Holies, where Captain Scott and the library occupied one end and Uncle Bill and myself the far corner, with the ceaselessly ticking chronometers and many sledging watches.  There was an air of sanctity about this part:  all the plotting was done here, charts made and astronomical observations worked out.  Wilson worked up his sketches at the “plotting table,” interviewed the staff here, and above his bunk kept a third of the shore party’s library.  We had two comfortable trestle beds up our end and our leader also had a bed in preference to the built-up bunk adopted by most of the afterguard.  Ours was the Mayfair district:  Wilson and I lived in Park Lane in those days, whilst Captain Scott occupied Grosvenor Street!  He had his own little table covered with “toney” green linoleum, and also had a multiplicity of little shelves on which to keep his pipes, tobacco, cigars, and other household gods.  It was well illuminated in this part, and, although, hung around with fur mitts, fur boots, socks, hats and woollen clothing, there was something very chaste about this very respectable corner.  For the rest of it we had our Arctic library, and the spare spaces on the matchboard bulkhead, which fenced it on three sides, were decorated with photographs.  In place of eiderdown Scott’s old uniform overcoat usually covered his bed, while peeping out from under his sleeping place one could espy an emblem of civilisation and prosperity in the shape of a very good suit-case.