This pudding was so filling that we could hardly struggle through a savoury, "Angels on runners," and cocoa. There was a general recovery when the "wine" was produced, made from stewed raisins and primus alcohol; and "The King" was toasted with much gusto. At the first sip, to say the least, we were disappointed. The rule of "no heel taps" nearly settled us, and quite a long interval and cigars, saved up for the occasion by Webb, were necessary before we could get courage enough to drink to the Other Sledging Parties and Our Supporting Party. The sun was low in the south when, cigars out and conversation lagging, we finally toggled in for the finest sleep of the whole journey. The cook, under a doubtful inspiration, broke forth, later on, into a Christmas Carol: I've dined in many places but never such as these- It's like the Gates of Heaven when you find you've lost the keys. I've dined with kings and emperors, perhaps you scarce believe; And even they do funny things when round comes Christmas Eve. I've feasted with iguanas on a lonely desert isle; Once in the shade of a wattle by a maiden's winsome smile. I've "grubbed" at a threepenny hash-house, I've been at a counter-lunch, Reclined at a clap-up cafe where only the "swankers" munch. In short, I've dined from Horn to Cape and up Alaska-way But the finest, funniest dinner of all was on that Xmas Day. For the first ten miles on the afternoon of the 28th, the sail was reefed down to prevent the sledge overrunning us on smooth patches. Not far past the one-hundred-and-ninety-mile mound, which was missed in the drift, we picked up some of the outward tracks--a bas-relief of three footsteps and a yard of sledge-meter track, raised half an inch and undercut by the wind. It was not very much, but quite a comfort when one is navigating in blinding weather.