f lyric inclination would enliven the company with
the score of the latest gramophone opera, and the messman and company
would often feel impelled to join in the choruses.

The night-watchman had sunk into log-like slumber, and the meteorologist
and his merry men were making preparations to go abroad. The merry men
included the ice-carrier, the magnetician, the two wardens of the
dogs, the snow-shoveller and coal-carrier and the storeman. The rest
subdivided themselves between the living Hut at 45 degrees F. and the
outer Hut below freezing-point, taking up their endless series of jobs.

The merry men began to make an organized raid on the kitchen. Around
and above the stove hung oddments like wolf-skin mitts, finnesko, socks,
stockings and helmets, which had passed from icy rigidity through sodden
limpness to a state of parchment dryness. The problem was to recover
one's own property and at the same time to avoid the cook scraping the
porridge saucepan and the messman scrubbing the table.

The urbane storeman saved the situation by inquiring of the cook: "What
will you have for lunch?" Then followed a heated colloquy, the former,
like a Cingalese vendor, having previously made up his mind. The
argument finally crystallized down to lambs' tongues and beetroot,
through herrings and tomato sauce, fresh herrings, kippered herrings,
sardines and corn beef.

The second question was a preliminary to more serious business; "What
would you like for dinner?"

Although much trouble might have been saved by reference to the
regulation programme, which was composed to provide variety in diet and
to eliminate any remote chance of scurvy, most cooks adopted an attitude
of surly independence, counting it no mean thing to have wheedled from
the storeman a few more ounces of "glaxo," another tin of peas or an
extra ration of penguin meat. All this chaffering took place in the open
market-place, so to speak, and there was no lack of frank criticism from
bystanders, onlookers and distant eavesdroppers. In case the cook was
worsted, the messman sturdily upheld his opinions, and in case the
weight of public opinion was too much for the storeman, he slipped on
his felt mitts, shouldered a Venesta box and made for the tunnel which
led to the store.

He reaches an overhead vent admitting a cool torrent of snow, and with
the inseparable box plunges ahead into darkness. An hour later his
ruddy face reappears in the Hut, and a load of frost