The spit was by no means an ideal camping-ground; it was rough, bleak, and inhospitable--just an acre or two of rock and shingle, with the sea foaming around it except where the snow-slope, running up to a glacier, formed the landward boundary.

But some of the larger rocks provided a measure of shelter from the wind, and as we clustered round the blubber-stove, with the acrid smoke blowing into our faces, we were quite a cheerful company.
After all, another stage of the homeward journey had been accomplished and we could afford to forget for an hour the problems of the future.
Life was not so bad.

We ate our evening meal while the snow drifted down from the surface of the glacier, and our chilled bodies grew warm.
Then we dried a little tobacco at the stove and enjoyed our pipes before we crawled into our tents.

The snow had made it impossible for us to find the tide-line and we were uncertain how far the sea was going to encroach upon our beach.

I pitched my tent on the seaward side of the camp so that I might have early warning of danger, and, sure enough, about 2 a.m.a little wave forced its way under the tent- cloth.