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Here, again, the Western Telegraph Company gave us warm hospitality: a rousing good evening with dinner and a sing-song to follow. By way of a leg-stretcher, and in order, I suppose, to rid ourselves of the superabundant energy accumulated in the close quarters of the Quest, we then let ourselves go; had a go-as-you-please rugger match in the passage—much to the consternation of the nigger servants—and generally took the place apart. When a score of hefty Britishers feel within them the spirit of movement things are apt to get smashed. But a rough-house is a good thing occasionally, and I dare say we should have had one or two aboard but that we were too much afraid of bursting the ship apart.

Whilst we sported others toiled, for we found to our unbounded satisfaction on returning in the ghostly small hours, that the Quest had been coaled and we were saved the grimy irksomeness of that unpleasant labour. I was glad enough, I assure you, for though I don’t profess to be any more afraid of work than the next fellow, there’s a lot of fine, heartfelt joy in knowing that someone else has done your job! Late aboard never meant late abed under Shackleton; six o’clock found me resuming the daily task. A homeward-bound liner, by which Mr. Lysaght travelled, replenished our lockers with fresh provisions—much better than the stringy goat obtainable ashore—and also granted us the inestimable boon of a ton of ice for the freezer. Ice counted for a lot there near the Line; but the time was to come—yet why anticipate?