Back from doing his bit for the English cricket ball manufacturing industry, yesterday evening, the Squire had met Sir Ernest Shackleton coming out of the Savoy.
“Been a guest of the Pilgrims’ Club at dinner and given a short address.”
“Why do you do it, old boy?” asked the Squire.
“Deuced if I know.”
“Must be most uncomfortable.”
“It is. You’re frozen stiff one moment and roasted the next. But when we get back to civilization and sit down to good dinners and everything, before we’ve been home six months we want to go out on the lone trail again. It’s a curious feeling when with the others we had marched through the snow, come back to the tent, got into our sleeping bags, gone to sleep and woken in the morning with the sun shining and great mountains around us which no man has seen before.”
“Old Shack’s rather a curiousity himself, Third Man. I only asked him why he did that kind of dinner. Wouldn’t find a cricketer misunderstand a fellow like that.”
London, April 25th 1914