One familiar landmark was missing—the little hospital hut in which I had lived with McIlroy, Macklin, Hussey, Crean and Marston, the dog-drivers of the last expedition. We found later that it had been moved from its old site close to the “dog-lines” to a more central position amongst the huts of the station. Mr. Jacobsen, the manager, an old friend of ours, came aboard, and shortly afterwards returned to the shore with Sir Ernest, who was full of vigour and energy. I had the boat lowered and went ashore with McIlroy, Hussey, Carr, Macklin and some others to look about our old quarters. The season was now midsummer, the snow had disappeared from the lower slopes, and with the bright sunshine and warmth the place had a very different aspect from what it had when we were here in 1914, much earlier in the season. In other respects there was little change, and we recognized amongst the workers at the station a number with whom we had been familiar; in particular, one of the flensers, a hard-bitten individual who was standing with spiked sea-boots on a huge whale carcass, assisting the stripping process by deft cuts here and there with his long-handled knife. We visited our old hut in its new situation. It was now being used as a hospital again, and a young Danish doctor was in charge. We passed along to its old site beside the stream, which runs clear and icy cold straight from the snows. There was much less volume of water than when we were here before, but the little basin we had cut out as a bathing place was still there. Here, with the others, I used to take a morning dip. That was in the days of my hardihood. Macklin used to lie down in it, and stand in the snow to dry himself. We went on to the “dog-lines,” passing _en route_ the little cemetery, which we glanced at casually enough. The stakes to which we had secured the tethering lines were still standing as we had left them, as were also the boards with which we had made a flooring for the tent. We climbed the hill to a lake, on the frozen surface of which we used to exercise the dogs—it was now a sheet of open water. We sat down on the banks, enjoying the lovely sunshine, and watched the countless skua gulls and terns which, attracted by the unwonted visitors, flew close down over our heads. The younger spirits, full of exuberance, and revelling in the change from the confinement of the ship, threw stones at them, and tempted Query, who had accompanied us, to retrieve pieces of wood from the lake. On our way back we were accosted by an incongruous figure—a coal-black nigger, on whose head was perched a bowler hat many sizes too small. He addressed us with a marked American twang: “Say, you boys from the _Quest_, you goin’ to the South Pole, ain’t you? Wal, guess I’m comin’ along with ya!” [Illustration: THE WHALING STATION AT GRITVIKEN _Photo: Wilkins_] [Illustration: SUNSET ON THE SLOPES OF SOUTH GEORGIA _Photo: Wilkins_]