October 28 was my birthday; all hands wished me many happy returns of the day, and I was given letters from my wife and from Forde and Keohane, who somehow remembered the date from last year—­these two, with Browning and Dickason, I had brought into the Expedition from H.M.S.  “Talbot,” one of my old ships.  But to continue:  we were all ready to start at 11 a.m. in a stiff, cold breeze, when I discovered that my personal bag had been taken off by the man-hauling party that came to assist us, so I put on ski and went to Hut Point, six miles back.  I found Meares there, and he gave me a surprised but hearty welcome and wished me “Happy returns, Teddy.”  I explained what had happened; it had been done of course the night before when my namesake had taken my personal bag in to Hut Point from Cape Armitage to save me the trouble of carrying it after a hard day’s work with the motors.  As I had had no need of it, I never noticed its presence at Hut Point, so there it was.  Meares made me laugh by an in the most friendly way, as if I was calling on him in his English home, “Stay and have lunch, won’t you, Teddy?” Of course I did, but as I was wanted by the Motor Party it was a somewhat hurried meal, fried seal liver and bacon.  We were not allowed to eat bacon on account of scurvy precaution, but still, it was my birthday, and nobody let me forget it.  Feeling much better and less angry after this unlooked for ski-run, I swung out to the Barrier edge, over the sea ice, up the Barrier slope, and on to the Barrier itself, where I picked up the tracks of the motors and followed them for seven miles.  I remember that ski run well:  I felt so very lonely all by myself on the silent Barrier, surrounded as I was by lofty white mountains, which lifted their summits to the blue peaceful heavens.  I thought over the future of the Southern Party and wondered how things would be one year hence; this was indeed facing the unknown.  I enjoyed the keen air, and the crisp surface was so easy to negotiate after my former Barrier visits with a heavy sledge dragging one back, but the very easiness I was enjoying made me think of Amundsen and his dogs.

If the Norwegians could glide along like this, it would be “good-bye” to our hopes of planting Queen Alexandra’s flag first at the South Pole.  As a matter of fact, while I was then making my way along to overtake the motors, Amundsen and his Polar party were beyond the 80th parallel, forcing their way Southward and hourly increasing their distance from us and from Captain Scott, who had not even started.  Yes, Amundsen was over 150 miles farther South, and his sledge runners were slithering over the snow, casting its powdered particles aside in beautiful little clouds while I was rapidly overhauling the motors with their labouring, sorely taxed custodians, Day, Lashly, and Hooper.  It seems very cruel to say this, but there’s no good in shutting one’s eyes to Truth, however unpleasantly clad she may be.  I caught the motors late in the afternoon after running