This dreadful blizzard was a terrific blow to Oates.  He of all men set himself to better the ponies’ state during the bad weather.  The animals lost condition with a rapidity that was horrible to observe.  The cutting wind whirling the sleet round the ponies gave them a very sorry time, but whenever one peeped out of the tent door there was Oates, wet to the skin, trying to keep life in his charges.  I think the poor soldier suffered as much as the ponies.  He had felt that every time he re-entered his tent (which was also Captain Scott’s) that he took in more wet snow and helped to increase the general discomfort.  This being the case when he went out to the ponies, he stopped out, and kept his vigil crouching behind a drifted up pony-wall.  We others could not help laughing at him, after the blizzard, when he wrung the icy water out of his clothing.  His personal bag was in a fearful state, his sodden tobacco had discoloured everything, and as he squeezed his spare socks and gloves a stream of nicotine-stained water flowed out.  I am unable to reproduce his observations on the subject—­they were dry, picturesque, and to the point, and even our bluejackets, who were none too particular about language, looked at Oates with undisguised astonishment at the length and variety of his emergency vocabulary.

December 7 showed no change:  the blizzard was continuous, food our only comfort.  Personally I read Atkinson’s copy of “Little Dorrit,” for it sufficed nothing to despair; we could not move, and one had to be patient.

Next day we had less wind, but it snowed most of the day.  We did, all the same, get glimpses of the sun and one of the land.  Dug out all sledges and hauled them clear, then tried the surface, and to Scott’s and our own surprise my party hauling on ski dragged the sledge with four big men sitting on it over the surface as much as we chose.

I had thought it beyond our power, it is true.  We then returned to camp.  Without ski one sank more than knee deep in the snow.  The horses were quite unable to progress, sinking to their bellies, so no start was made.  We shifted our tent and re-spread it on new snow well trampled down.  This brief respite from our sleeping-bags freed our cramped limbs.  Weather improved and we did not find it necessary after all to get back into our bags, for it was still warm and quite pleasant sitting in the tent.

What a sight the camp had presented before we started digging out.  The ponies like drowned rats, their manes and tails dank and dripping, a saturated blotting-paper look about their green horse cloths, eyes half closed, mouths flabby and wet, each animal half buried in this Antarctic morass, the old snow walls like sand dunes after a storm.

The green tents just peeping through the snow, mottled and beaten in, as it were, all sledges well under, except for here and there a red paraffin oil tin and the corner of an instrument box peeping out.  Our ski-sticks and ski alone stood up above it all, and those sleeping-bags, ugh—­rightly the place was christened “Shambles Camp.”