In his cabin, Graham Gore studies his bandaged palm and reflects on the shipboard diagnosis of “debility,” understanding it as scurvy and the accompanying collapse of body and mind. He imagines its symptoms—bleeding, loose teeth, reopened wounds, and an aching homesickness so sharp that even the thought of an orange or the word “Mother” can unhinge men.

Gore forces his fingers apart and feels the hot pain where the bandages have stuck. The sensation pulls him into a memory of an older injury in Australia while rowing upriver with Captain Stokes. Gore had raised his gun at cockatoos, insisted he would not miss, and then—after a gap—remembered only the thunderous report, the blue sky, and finding himself wet-handed in the bottom of the boat as Stokes, pale and shaking, reached for him. Gore recalls remarking, “Killed the bird,” and Stokes laughing.

Back in the cabin, Gore admits how much he misses Stokes and the warmth and newness of Australia—trees, undergrowth, even the minor risks of unfamiliar food. He avoids thinking too long about family in New South Wales, just as he avoids dwelling on the injury itself.

Gore notes his increasing thinness and the way his bones have become prominent, disliking the intimacy of bodily awareness. He refuses self-pity, comparing himself unfavorably to sturdier men like James Fitzjames and James Fairholme, and he also refuses to despair over today’s poor hunting.

Determined to try again tomorrow, Gore recalls earlier Arctic success—killing a reindeer that was served at Christmas—and remembers Robert McClure as a young mate, and Captain Back’s toast to “absent friends.” The reflections end on Gore’s hard certainty: he is an excellent shot, “very good at killing things,” and the act of pulling a trigger gives him a grim sense of being loved.