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The morning broke beautifully clear, and we were early aroused by some inquisitive keas, or mountain parrots, which perched on the tent and set up an unearthly screeching. These birds are ridiculously amusing and tame, and we frequently replenished our larder with them by the aid of a shanghai, or common schoolboy’s catapult, with which instrument of warfare I have the rather questionable credit of being somewhat of an adept. When I think of the savoury fries and stews which the shanghai has brought to our camp table—the table being usually a rock or a large lily leaf—I begin to be reconciled to the haunting regrets for apple-destroying and window-smashing which so often beguiled the tedium of a scholastic career.

We determined not to attempt any climbing so soon after the storm, but set out to reconnoitre the route taken by Mr. Green.

Mounting the steep lateral moraine of the Ball Glacier we were soon across it and on to the clear ice of the Hochstetter stream beyond, and felt the joyful crunching of our well-nailed boots as we tramped along over the uneven surface.