CHAPTER XVIII
THE POLAR JOURNEY (continued)
This happy breed of men, this little world.
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall, . . .
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, . . .
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land.
VI. Farthest South
Stevenson has written of a traveller whose wife slumbered by his side what time his spirit re-adventured forth in memory of days gone by. He was quite happy about it, and I suppose his travels had been peaceful, for days and nights such as these men spent coming down the Beardmore will give you nightmare after nightmare, and wake you shrieking—years after.
Of course they were shaken and weakened. But the conditions they had faced, and the time they had been out, do not in my opinion account entirely for their weakness nor for Evans' collapse, which may have had something to do with the fact that he was the biggest, heaviest and most muscular man in the party. I do not believe that this is a life for such men, who are expected to pull their weight and to support and drive a larger machine than their companions, and at the same time to eat no extra food. If, as seems likely, the ration these men were eating was not enough to support the work they were doing, then it is clear that the heaviest man will feel the deficiency sooner
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