It was a sunny day, and our faces shone in rivalry with the sun; all trace of the last two days’ annoyances had vanished.  And soon the Fram, too, began to shine.  The white paint on deck had a thorough overhauling with soap and water in strong solution.  The Ripolin was again as fresh as when new.  When this had been seen to, the outward appearance of the men also began to undergo a striking change.  The Iceland jackets and “blanket costumes” from Horten gave way to “shore clothes” of the most varied cut, hauled out after a two years’ rest; razors and scissors had made a rich harvest, and sailmaker Ronne’s fashionable Burberry caps figured on most heads.  Even Lindstrom, who up to date had held the position among the land party of being its heaviest, fattest, and blackest member, showed unmistakable signs of having been in close contact with water.

Meanwhile we were nearing a pilot station, and a bustling little motor launch swung alongside.  “Want a pilot, captain?” One positively started at the sound of the first new human voice.  Communication with the outer world was again established.  The pilot —­ a brisk, good-humoured old man —­ looked about him in surprise when he came up on to our deck.  “I should never have imagined things were so clean and bright on board a Polar ship,” he said; “nor should I have thought from the look of you that you had come from Antarctica.  You look as if you had had nothing but a good time.”  We could assure him of that, but as to the rest, it was not our intention just yet to allow ourselves to be pumped, and the old man could see that.  He had no objection to our pumping him, though he had no very great store of news to give us.  He had heard nothing of the Terra Nova; on the other hand, he was able to tell us that Dr. Mawson’s ship, the Aurora, commanded by Captain Davis, might be expected at Hobart any day.  They had been looking out for the Fram since the beginning of February, and had given us up long ago.  That was a surprise, anyhow.

Our guest evidently had no desire to make the acquaintance of our cuisine; at any rate, he very energetically declined our invitation to breakfast.  Presumably he was afraid of being treated to dog’s flesh or similar original dishes.  On the other hand, he showed great appreciation of our Norwegian tobacco.  He had his handbag pretty nearly full when he left us.

Hobart Town lies on the bank of the Derwent River, which runs into Storm Bay.  The surroundings are beautiful, and the soil evidently extremely fertile; but woods and fields were almost burnt up on our arrival; a prolonged drought had prevailed, and made an end of all green things.  To our eyes it was, however, an unmixed delight to look upon meadows and woods, even if their colours were not absolutely fresh.  We were not very difficult to please on that score.

The harbour of Hobart is an almost ideal one, large and remarkably well protected.  As we approached the town, the usual procession of harbour-master, doctor, and Custom-house officers came aboard.  The doctor soon saw that there was no work for his department, and the Custom-house officers were easily convinced that we had no contraband goods.  The anchor was dropped, and we were free to land.  I took my cablegrams, and accompanied the harbour-master ashore.