“I suppose so.”
“Much obliged. That’ll be one I owe you.”
“I presume it’s a secret, is it?”
“Correct,” replied Scagg. “And don’t worry about the candles: I’ll see to them.”
“All right, when would you like it for?”
“Tonight.”
“Good grief,” murmured Seddon. “You do want miracles, don’t you?”
Without further discussion, Scagg glanced at his watch, then began his daily round of the tents, waking all those who were still asleep. First to emerge was Summerfield, whose turn it was to feed the mules. He was followed from the same tent by Plover and, lastly, Sargent. All were now clad in the full attire of surcoat and woolly helmet, and all walked with a kind of stoop as they headed out into the wind.
“Any idea when we’re going to see some proper daylight again?” asked Sargent. “All these early nights are taking their toll of me. Wearing me out, they are.”
“Is that why you’re always last up?” Scagg countered.
“Who is?”
“You are.”
“It was only a civil enquiry.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid the man to ask is Chase. He’s been taking all the readings, not me.”
“Will it be days or weeks, do you think?”
“I expect it’ll be one or the other,” said Scagg.
Sargent looked at him for several seconds through the opening of his helmet, then turned abruptly and walked off in the direction of the field kitchen. “Get more information out of a stone,” he muttered, when he was out of earshot.
There was the usual gathering of breakfasters, all hunched together behind one of Summerfield’s constructions while a gale raged around the camp. Sargent collected his helping of porridge and looked for a place to sit down. Finding nowhere suitable, he then wandered over to where Summerfield was still tending to his charges.
“You’d better hurry up,” he said. “Or you’ll miss your share of the vittles.”
“Not to worry,” Summerfield replied. “Seddon always saves me something.”
Sargent nodded towards the hooded mule. “Is that the one that’s holding us back?”
“Supposedly, yes, although for my part I feel it’s most unfair to blame the wretched creature for our shortcomings. Scagg has ordered me not to feed it until all the others have had their fill. Only then may I remove the hood, so he says.”
“Well, it’s hardly a real punishment anyway,” said Sargent.
“Surely it would have been better to give it a sound beating and put it on half rations for a day or two.”
“I wouldn’t let Mr Johns hear you talking like that if I were you,” rejoined Summerfield. “In his opinion the well-being of the mules is our chief priority. Besides which, Professor Childish disapproved of those sort of methods.”
“Who’s Professor Childish when he’s at home?”
At these words Summerfield peered out of his woolly helmet with an incredulous expression on his face.
“But you must know who he was.”
“Was?”
“He’s been dead for twenty years.”
“No wonder I’ve never heard of him.”
“For heaven’s sake, Sargent! Professor Childish was the founder of Transportation Theory.”
“Transportation? Oh, you mean ‘Round ‘em Up and Ship ‘em Out!’”
“That’s the popular name for it, yes,” said Summerfield. “But I know privately Mr Johns prefers the term ‘transportation’. Apparently he finds all the sloganeering rather distasteful.”
“Shocking,” agreed Sargent.
He sat down and stirred his porridge reflectively. Summerfield joined him, having now completed his duties. Meanwhile, at the opposite side of the camp, tents were already being dismanded.
“So this professor chap thought it all up, did he?” Sargent enquired at length.
“He did indeed.”
“I always assumed it was Johns’ idea.”
“Well, certainly, Mr Johns had the technical means to carry the theory out; but it originated with Professor Childish. As a matter of fact, I’ve been studying his treatise lately, when I’ve found the time.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed you’ve had your nose stuck in that book most evenings.”
“It makes fascinating reading,” Summerfield continued. “It’s written in an archaic sort of style which takes some getting used to, but all the same it’s absolutely brimful of ideas. I’m sure Mr Johns wouldn’t mind if you wanted to borrow it after me.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Sargent. “But to tell you the truth I don’t really go in much for theories.”
“I take it you’re not a subscriber then?”
“I’m not anything.”
“Then what on earth made you volunteer for such an arduous journey as this?”
“There was nothing else for me,” replied Sargent with a shrug. “So I decided I might as well sign up.”
“Summerfield!” called a voice from the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want this breakfast or not?!”
“Coming!” he called back, then, speaking to Sargent, “Better dash.”
Summerfield sprang to his feet and in an instant he was gone. Sargent stayed where he was, spending quite some time finishing his porridge before eventually returning to the centre of the encampment. This was now a hive of activity. Most of the stores and equipment had been stacked ready for loading, the field kitchen was all folded away and the men were sorting out the last of their personal belongings. Only Summerfield stood stationary with his spoon and bowl as he hurried down a belated breakfast. Plover was near at hand. He was holding a small shaving mirror close to the lantern, looking at himself and making sure his woolly helmet was on straight.
“I’m surprised you’re late, Summerfield,” he commented. “Quite unusual, for you.”
“Yes, I know,” came the reply. “I got talking to Sargent.”
“That must have been jolly interesting.”
“It was, actually,” answered Summerfield. “I find him very good company.”
“Well, each to his own, I suppose.”
“Someone mention my name?” said Sargent, appearing out of the gloom.
“I was just saying you were on your own,” said Plover quickly. “Now that Cook’s no longer with us. Expect you’re missing him, aren’t you?”
“Why should I be missing him?”
“Because I thought the two of you were great pals.”
“We joined the expedition on the same day,” said Sargent. “But I’d never met him before that.”
“Really? Well, I must say the two of you seemed to get on very well, sharing your plates, swapping jokes and so forth.”
“You mean we’re birds of a feather?” said Sargent.
“Yes…er, no, of course not.”
“What then?”
“Well…”
“Plover,” intervened Summerfield. “I think Scagg wants you for something.”
“Ah, does he?” said Plover. “Then you must excuse me, gentlemen.”
Giving Sargent a curt nod, he smiled, then turned and walked away. After he’d gone, Sargent winked at Summerfield.
“Spoilsport,” he murmured, with a grin.
§
Sometime during that day, amongst his numerous other considerations, Seddon devised a means for baking a cake on an open stove. He refused to disclose the method to a curious Scagg, however, insisting on keeping it to himself. For his part, Scagg made sure Seddon received all the assistance he needed, and when the evening halt was called he instructed Blanchflower and Firth to help set up the field kitchen. There was nothing uncommon in this, as everyone was used to Scagg giving orders. What was noticeable, and remarked upon at different times by various people, was his increasing irritability as the new camp was established and supper prepared.
“What’s irking him?” asked Sargent, after being snapped at for no apparent reason.