LOST IN THE LAND OF ICE
[Illustration: “HE MEASURED HIS DISTANCE AND DOVE STRAIGHT INTO THE
SPUME.”]
_LOST IN
THE LAND OF ICE
OR
Daring Adventures Around
the South Pole_
_BY_
Captain Ralph Bonehill
Author of “Boys of the Fort,” “For the Liberty of
Texas,” “Tour of the Zero Club,” etc.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
A. WESSELS COMPANY
_1902_
Copyright, 1902,
by A. WESSELS CO.
PREFACE
“Lost in the Land of Ice” relates the adventures of a boy and a young
man who, in company with a sturdy ship’s crew, go in search of a lost
treasure ship said to be cast away somewhere in the region of the South
Pole. Fortunately the young man who plays such an important part in the
narrative is rich, hence the fitting out of the expedition becomes a
comparatively easy matter. But enemies hear of the lost treasure ship
and also go in quest of it, and this results in scenes of peril not
altogether due to natural causes.
My main object in writing this tale was to acquaint young readers with
something of the wonders of the region around the South Pole. While
numerous expeditions have been sent north and volumes upon volumes
have been written concerning these trips, hardly any expeditions have
gone south, and the Land of Desolation, so called, is almost as much
of a mystery to-day as it was a century ago, the nearest approach to
the Pole being made by Sir James Clark Ross in 1842, and this being
but little closer than the approach by Wendell, in 1823. It is indeed
a Land of Desolation, yet to-day scientists and daring explorers are
accomplishing so much that I believe the near future will see the
mystery of both the South and the North Pole cleared away, in spite of
the ice, the intense cold, and other drawbacks.
In placing this new story in the hands of my youthful readers, I thank
them for their appreciation of my former efforts to interest them and
trust this volume will fulfil their every expectation.
CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE COLD-STORAGE WAREHOUSE, 7
II. BARRY TO THE RESCUE, 15
III. BOB’S REMARKABLE STORY, 21
IV. BOB AND A CAKE OF ICE, 29
V. CAPTAIN FENLICK, 35
VI. IN THE GRASP OF THE ENEMY, 40
VII. CAPTAIN FENLICK TRIES TO MAKE TERMS, 49
VIII. THE ATTACK IN THE ALLEY, 56
IX. A PRISONER ON THE VIXEN, 63
X. “CROWD ON ALL STEAM!” 71
XI. AN ADVENTURE IN THE FOG, 79
XII. OFF FOR SOUTH AMERICA, 87
XIII. WHAT HAPPENED AT PERNAMBUCO, 96
XIV. FIVE STOWAWAYS, 103
XV. SOMETHING ABOUT A PISTOL, 109
XVI. THE PRISONERS IN THE HOLD, 117
XVII. THE WILD PATAGONIANS, 124
XVIII. CAPTAIN GORDON’S OFFER, 132
XIX. “WE MUST FIGHT!” 141
XX. A STRANGE MEETING ON THE BEACH, 148
XXI. ADRIFT IN A STORM, 156
XXII. THE CONTEST FOR THE ARROW, 164
XXIII. THE VOYAGE IS CONTINUED, 172
XXIV. THREE POLAR BEARS, 180
XXV. CAST AWAY IN THE ICE, 187
XXVI. ADVENTURES ON THE BIG ICEBERG, 193
XXVII. FROM ONE DIFFICULTY TO ANOTHER, 199
XXVIII. UP INTO THE AIR, 206
XXIX. “THE SHIP! THE SHIP!” 212
XXX. THE MAGNETISM OF THE SOUTH POLE, 221
XXXI. MEETING OF FATHER AND SON, 228
XXXII. HOME AGAIN--CONCLUSION, 235
LOST IN THE LAND OF ICE
CHAPTER I
THE COLD-STORAGE WAREHOUSE
Dong! dong! dong! dong!
Loud and clear through the midnight air rang the warning gong of
a long hook-and-ladder truck as the machine bowled along over the
granite-block pavement of one of the lower streets of the city of New
York.
The hour was well past midnight, yet New York never sleeps, and the
streets were more or less alive with people, some going to their early
work, others returning from a half night of pleasure.
Dong! dong! dong! dong!
Down past the Astor House on Broadway swept the heavy truck, filled
with swaying firemen, who clung fast like so many monkeys as they
donned their rubber coats and boots. Five minutes before, most of them
had been sleeping on their cots in the truck house, half a dozen blocks
away. But now every man was wide awake and ready to do his duty to the
utmost, no matter what the peril.
Dong! dong! dong! dong!
The long truck swept around the corner of Vesey street, and as it did
so the clanging of the gong awoke many of the sleepers in the hotel
with a start.
“What’s the matter?”
“Where is the fire?”
“Is the hotel burning?”
Such were some of the questions asked, as those in the rooms either ran
into the hallway or craned their heads out of the many windows of the
second, third, and fourth stories of the hotel.
“No danger here,” was the reply, which was quickly circulated. “The
fire is at the Powell cold-storage warehouse, two blocks below here.”
“The Powell cold-storage warehouse,” repeated a tall and handsome
youth, who was occupying an elegantly furnished apartment on the second
floor. “You are sure of that?”
“Yes, sah,” replied the hallman.
“Then I’m going to dress and go to it,” went on Barry Filmore. “I am
interested in that plant.”
“If you is, I’d be sorry to see it burn down,” remarked the hallman,
for he had received many a generous tip from rich Barry Filmore, and he
liked the young man very much.
“Oh, it’s insured, or at least it ought to be,” answered Barry;
“although old Powell is such a queer stick, there is no telling what he
is up to, half the time.” And he began to haul on his clothing with all
speed.
Barry Filmore was a youth of nineteen, tall, strong, good looking,
and well liked by all who knew him. He was the orphan son of a former
Brooklyn millionaire, and at the death of his parents, three years
previous to the opening of this story, had been placed in the care
of Jasper Powell, a peculiar old man, who was at the head of the
Powell Cold Storage Warehouse Company, and who was also the inventor
of several systems of cold storage and refrigerating, in use both in
warehouses and on freight trains.
Barry did not like Powell because of his peculiar ways; yet as the old
man let him do very nearly as he pleased, the youth found little cause
to complain. Powell was a bachelor, living at a cheap hotel on the east
side. Barry did not live with him, but instead put up either at one
of the leading hotels or on board of his own private steam yacht, the
Arrow. The Arrow had been left to Barry by his father, who had also, by
the terms of his will, left his only son two hundred dollars per month
for living expenses until he should become twenty-one, when he was to
inherit the whole of the Filmore fortune, less ten thousand dollars,
which was to go to Jasper Powell for his services as executor.
When Barry reached the street he found it crowded with people, all
rushing in the direction of the fire. A steam engine had gone on ahead
and now another followed, and then came a patrol wagon with several
special policemen.
The Powell cold-storage warehouse was situated in the middle of a
block, with other warehouses on either side of it. When Barry reached
the vicinity, flames were shooting from the windows of the first floor,
and thick, black smoke was puffing out from many windows above and from
the roof.
“That building is doomed!”
“The firemen will be lucky if they save the buildings on both sides!”
“Where is the watchman?”
So the cries ran on, as the crowd surged closer and closer, until the
police drove the people back. One steamer was already at work, and now
a second began to pour two streams into the second-story window. But
the crackling of the flames increased, and soon it was evident that the
fire was crawling steadily up the rear of the structure to the roof.
Suddenly a wild shriek was heard, coming directly after a jingling of
glass, and an old man with flowing white hair appeared in the frame of
a third-story window. He had dashed out the panes of glass with his
hands, and the blood was flowing from those members.
“Save me!” he screamed. “Save me! Don’t let me die like a rat in a
trap!”
“It’s old man Powell!” uttered half a dozen voices. “What is he doing
in the building at this time of night?”
“Bring up a ladder, boys!” shouted the captain of the hook-and-ladder
truck. “Step lively now, or we’ll be too late.”
“Save me!” continued Jasper Powell, dancing around on the window sill.
“You dogs! Why don’t you save me? You want me to burn up, don’t you?”
Always of a peculiar turn of mind, the fire had driven him almost
insane.
The ladders were rushed forward and placed against the window, and
up the first of them ran a truckman, followed by a fellow-fireman.
But before the window was gained, Jasper Powell shook his fist at the
advancing men.
“No, you don’t!” he snarled. “You shan’t learn my secret! Get back!
I’ll come down alone!” And he continued to shake his fist at the two
firemen.
“Keep cool, old man,” said the truckman, soothingly. “We’ll have you
down, all safe and sound in a minute.”
“You shan’t learn my secret, I say!” roared Jasper Powell, frantically.
“Get back! My secret has been my own for ten years! Get back!” And
then, as the truckman came up another step, the old man turned suddenly
and disappeared from view.
“Well, blame him for a fool!” muttered the truckman. “Come back here,
if you want to be saved.”
“He’s a goner!” yelled the crowd. “He’s gone crazy, and will rush right
into the flames.”
Barry had listened to Jasper Powell’s words with keen interest.
“His secret!” he murmured. “I knew he had a secret last week, and last
month, too, when he wouldn’t let me go near room 18. Whatever his
secret is, it’s in room 18--and I’m going to find it out!” he added
suddenly.
He was in the front rank of spectators, and darting past a policeman,
made straight for the doorway of the burning building. The flames had
now found an outlet at the rear of the building, so the hallway was
comparatively free from smoke and fire.
“Hi, come back here!” yelled the officer of the law. “Do you want to be
burnt up?”
“No; and I’m not going to be burnt up!” answered Barry. “I know what I
am doing.”
“It’s sure death to go in there.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“Not much you won’t!” answered the policeman, and darted after Barry.
But the youth was not to be caught, and soon a puff of smoke drove the
bluecoat back into the street.
In the course of the past few years Barry had paid the cold-storage
warehouse many visits, and consequently he knew the building
thoroughly. The elevator shaft was a mass of flames, but the stairs
behind it were still untouched, and up these he went, three steps at a
time.
“Mr. Powell! Mr. Powell! Where are you?” he called out at the top of
his lungs.
No answer came back--only the crackling of the flames--and he mounted
to the third story. He was passing through the upper hallway when he
stumbled over something and fell headlong.
“Oh!” came in a groan, and he recognized Jasper Powell’s voice. The old
man was in a chill of fear, with his limbs trembling violently and his
teeth chattering.
“Go! leave me--leave me with my secret!” he gasped, staring wildly at
Barry. “Go! go!”
“Mr. Powell, don’t you know me!” returned the youth. “It is your ward,
Barry Filmore.”
“No! no! You are the demon of the South Pole, come to rob me of my
secret! Begone, or the fiery furnace will open to receive you! Begone,
I say!” And then the old man began to weep like a little child.
“As mad as a March hare!” murmured Barry.
“But he’s got a secret, sure!” he added mentally.
“Leave me, I say!” continued Jasper Powell. “You are the demon of the
South Pole, but the secret of the land of ice is mine--all mine! And
the gold of the treasure ship, too! All mine--all Jasper Powell’s!
Ha! ha!” And leaping to his feet he flourished his arms wildly before
Barry, and then darted swiftly toward the rear of the building, where
the flames now made all as bright as day.
“Mr. Powell, come back! Please come back!” yelled Barry, hoarsely. The
strangeness of the situation almost struck him dumb.
“Come back, to be robbed of my secret? Never!” screamed the old man.
“Farewell, and when next we meet, let it be at the South Pole!”
And with one long cry which rang in Barry Filmore’s ears for days
afterward, he rushed for the rear of the warehouse and plunged straight
into the roaring flames, to be seen no more!