34 WITH SCOTT: THE SILVER LINING 



Opening on to these somewhat dismal surroundings is the 

 cabin of Meares— the man of dogs and wild adventures in 

 the Far East. 



A large portion of the starboard side of the wardroom 

 is occupied by the " owner's " cabin. Here are Captain Scott 

 and Lieutenant Evans, the latter taking charge of the ship on 

 its voyage south. The four after cabins (two on each side) 

 are not quite so circumscribed as those of the scientists, but 

 they are the permanent quarters of the navigators, while 

 nous autres are mere birds of passage, and will soon be scat- 

 tered over the face of Victoria Land. 



The ship was hove-to just outside Lyttelton Harbour, and 

 one had leisure to admire the wonderful coast-line of Banks 

 Peninsula. Everything indicates a late submergence of this 

 part of New Zealand. Inland valleys sloping away from the 

 coast — relics of a former topography — are laid bare and 

 chopped in half by the erosion of the waves. I strolled over 

 to the top of the ice-house, where one of the junior scientists 

 was sitting stoically among the dogs, and Lieutenant Pennell 

 was bending over the large standard compass which ornaments 

 the ice-house roof. He said, " You haven't a knife on you, 

 have you ?" I proudly pulled out the bowie I'd just bought 

 with evil designs on Antarctic seals. He remarked, " You'll 

 have to take that off. I'm swinging ship." 



This consisted in rotating the ship as rapidly as feasible, 

 meanwhile taking timed observations on the sun to obtain 

 true bearings. By this means the total effect of the iron in 

 the ship and stores on the magnet of the compass was ascer- 

 tained. On leaving Antarctica next year this operation must 

 be repeated. The aforesaid assistant was noting times when 

 the observer called out " Top ! " The actual swinging occupied 

 about an hour, during which one could trace the devious 

 track of the ship by the circular wake over her stern. 



The Clerk of the Weather was kind to us, and our journey 

 of thirty hours from Lyttelton to Port Chalmers was peaceful 

 and uneventful. The farewell evolutions of Lieutenant Ren- 

 nick on the poop-deck, whereby he sent and received messages 

 which apparently afforded him considerable amusement, 

 directed attention to the value of semaphore signalling in the 

 frozen south. Next day might be seen eminent scientists 

 wildly waving their arms according to the accepted code of 



