ig settlement; sledge, tent and all of us dropped about a
foot, and the noise of it ran away for miles and miles: we listened to it
until we began to get too cold. It must have lasted a full three minutes.

In the pauses of our marching we halted in our harnesses the ropes of
which lay slack in the powdery snow. We stood panting with our backs
against the mountainous mass of frozen gear which was our load. There was
no wind, at any rate no more than light airs: our breath crackled as it
froze. There was no unnecessary conversation: I don't know why our
tongues never got frozen, but all my teeth, the nerves of which had been
killed, split to pieces. We had been going perhaps three hours since
lunch.

"How are your feet, Cherry?" from Bill.

"Very cold."

"That's all right; so are mine." We didn't worry to ask Birdie: he never
had a frost-bitten foot from start to finish.

Half an hour later, as we marched, Bill would ask the same question. I
tell him that all feeling has gone: Bill still has some feeling in one of
his but the other is lost. He settled we had better camp: another ghastly
night ahead. We started to get out of our harnesses, while Bill, before
doing anything else, would take the fur mitts from his hands, carefully
shape any soft parts as they froze (generally, however, our mitts did not
thaw on our hands), and lay them on the snow in front of him--two dark
dots. His proper fur mitts were lost when the igloo roof went: these were
the delicate dog-skin linings we had in addition, beautiful things to
look at and to feel when new, excellent when dry to turn the screws of a
theodolite, but too dainty for straps and lanyards. Just now I don't know
what he could have done without them.

Working with our woollen half-mitts and mitts on our hands all the time,
and our fur mitts over them when possible, we gradually got the buckles
undone, and spread the green canvas floor-cloth on the snow. This was
also fitted to be used as a sail, but we never could have rigged a sail
on this journey. The shovel and the bamboos, with a lining, itself lined
with ice, lashed to them, were packed on the top of the load and were now
put on the snow until wanted. Our next job was to lift our three
sleeping-bags one by one on to the floor-cloth: they covered it, bulging
over the sides--those obstinate coffins which were all our life to us....
One of us is off by now to nurse his fingers back. The cooker was
unlashed from the top o