On the other hand, we had ten ponies left, though two or three of them were of more than doubtful quality; and it was obvious that considerable improvement could and must be made in the feeding of both ponies and dogs.  With regard to the dogs the remedy was plain; their ration was too small.  With regard to the ponies the question was not so simple.  One of the main foods for the ponies which we had brought was compressed fodder in the shape of bales.  Theoretically this fodder was excellent food value, and was made of wheat which was cut green and pressed.  Whether it was really wheat or not I do not know, but there could be no two opinions about its nourishing qualities for our ponies.  When fed upon it they lost weight until they were just skin and bone.  Poor beasts!  It was pitiful to see them.

In Oates we had a man who had forgotten as much as most men know about horses.  It was no fault of his that this fodder was inadequate, nor that we had lost so many of the best ponies which we had.  Oates had always been for taking the worst ponies out on the Depot Journey:  travelling as far on to the Barrier as they could go, and there killing them and depoting their flesh.  Now Oates took the ten remaining ponies into his capable hands.  Some of them were scarecrows, especially poor Jehu, who was never expected to start at all, and ended by gallantly pulling his somewhat diminished load eight marches beyond One Ton Camp, a distance of 238 miles.  Another, Christopher, was a man-killer if ever a horse was; he had to be thrown in order to attach him to the sledge; to the end he would lay out any man who was rash enough to give him the chance; once started, and it took four men to achieve this, it was impossible to halt him during the day’s march, and so Oates and his three tent mates and their ponies had to go without any lunch meal for 130 miles of the Southern Journey.

Oates trained them and fed them as though they were to run in the Derby.  They were exercised whenever possible throughout the winter and spring by those who were to lead them on the actual journey.  Fresh and good food was found in the shape of oilcake and oats, a limited quantity of each of which had been brought and was saved for the actual Polar Journey, and everything which care and foresight could devise was done to save them discomfort.  It is a grim life for animals, but in the end we were to know that up to the time of that bad blizzard almost at the Glacier Gateway, which was the finishing post of these plucky animals, they had fed all they needed, slept as well and lived as well as any, and better than most horses in ordinary life at home.  “I congratulate you, Titus,” said Wilson, as we stood under the shadow of Mount Hope, with the ponies’ task accomplished, and “I thank you,” said Scott.

Titus grunted and was pleased.