THE RACE IS ON
"And now for the lakeside secret," exclaimed Barney, tossing the last
fish upon the pile, and throwing his frosty pole aside.
Eagerly Bruce sprang to his feet. Together they raced around the pool.
Clambering over the tumbled avalanches of snow, they were soon within
sight of the strange triangle. Barney's heart beat fast. What was it?
Could it be only a bit of bent timber lodged there on the log-roof of a
long-abandoned Indian shack? Or was it--was it what he knew Bruce hoped
it might be--a supply-house for gasoline, or perhaps a motor-boat with a
supply of gasoline on board?
Excitedly they attacked the piles of snow. Lacking shovels, they
worked with hands and feet. Hope grew with every kick and scoop. This
was no mere bit of timber, nor yet an abandoned shack; it was too
recently built to leave a doubt about that. And now they had reached
the top of the door.
"I say we've found it," panted Bruce, redoubling his efforts.
"Wait. Don't hope too much," gasped Barney, tossing aside snow like a dog
burrowing for a rabbit.
The door had a spring padlock on it. Barney, hurrying to the lake for
some pieces of ice, cracked the lock as he would a nut between stones.
Then, prying the door open a bit at the top, he tried to peer in.
"Dark," he muttered. "Can't see a thing."
Breathlessly they resumed work.
And now the door was free to the very bottom. It was Bruce's turn.
Forcing the door open a foot, he took one good look, then let out a
whoop.
"Gasoline!" he shouted. "Bedons of it!"
"May be empty," suggested Barney.
"I'll see," said Bruce. An instant more, and having crowded himself
through the narrow space, he struck a hundred-gallon steel bedon with his
fist. No hollow sound came from it.
"Full," he exclaimed, and, the strain over, sank to the floor with a sigh
of relief.
The more hardy Barney began to explore the place. To the back was a small
gasoline launch, apparently in perfect condition. Ranged along the right
wall were the bedons, five of them, all full but one, and each containing
a hundred gallons.
"Well," said Barney, sitting on a bedon, and kicking his heels against
its steel side, "now we can take the Major to the moon, or any other did
place he wishes to go; that is, if we want to."
For a long time Bruce was silent. Now that the excitement was over he
realized he was homesick. Then, too, the dangers of yesterday had shaken
his nerves. He was thinking, also, of La Vaune working her way through
the academy when money, much money, belonging to her lay idle; and of
Timmie, who awaited their return to assist him in the retrieving of his
good name. But there came the after-thought: had it not been for the
Major's trust in him and in Barney, none of these things would have been
possible. Yes, they owed a debt to the Major and that debt must be paid.
"And I guess we want to take him where he wants to go," said he,
straightening up as he looked his friend in the eye.
"Good!" exclaimed Barney. "I was going to leave it to you, but I knew
you'd do it. It's the chance of our lives. I'm sure he means the
Pole--the North Pole! Think of it! And, then, there's the reward!"
"Guess we'd better squeeze out of here and go break the glad news," said
Bruce, "He's up there fairly eating his heart out."
"The race is on," muttered Barney, as they hurried up the bank.
"The race is on," echoed the Major, a few minutes later, as he walked the
floor in high glee.
"Yes, sir, it is," said Barney, "and a good clean race it will be if Dave
Tower is skipper of that submarine. I never knew a squarer fellow."
The Major, limbering up his wireless instruments, sent a message
snap-snapping across the frozen expanse.
"What you doing?" asked Barney.
"Just letting that foxy old rival of mine know I got his message and that
I'm on the job," chuckled the Major. "I'll get off other messages every
three hours for a time."
"Would you mind mentioning my name in the message?" asked Barney. "You
see, I've got a date for a little jazz with Dave up at the Pole, and I'd
like him to know I'm planning to keep the appointment."
The Major chuckled again, and included this in his message:
"Barney Menter, pilot."
The party at the Aleutian station caught the Major's second sending of
the message. The Doctor's face grew gray, as he realized its meaning.
"Great Providence!" he exclaimed. "Will he beat me again?" Then striking
the table with his fist. "He will not! We're crippled by the loss of an
important member of our party. He has the swiftest conveyance, but it is
not the surest. We will win! We start to-morrow. The race is on!"
As for Dave, he was more than glad at the prospect of meeting Barney at
the Pole. He was confident that both expeditions would succeed. The only
question in his optimistic young mind was, which would arrive first? If
his trying could decide it, the sub would get there first. He and Barney
had been chums since boyhood, but they had been keen competitors in all
their play, study and work. Now their wits were once more fairly matched.
"It's the army and the navy!" he exclaimed. "A fair, square race. And may
the best one win."
"I might say," remarked the Doctor, "that there is a bountiful prize
offered to the first person who next reaches the Pole, and who brings
back three witnesses who can make readings of latitude and longitude
to testify to the facts. Should we win, the prize will go to you and
the crew."
"I'll go tell them," said Dave, donning his cap. A moment later the
Doctor heard cheers which sounded like:
"Rah! Rah! Rah for Doctor! Rah! Rah! Rah for the North Pole!"
The race was on!
Her secret service days over for the present, the "sub" had been given a
coat of black paint. Now, as she scudded through the dark waters of
Behring Sea, Dave, standing in the conning-tower, thought how much she
must resemble a whale. During the war many a leviathan of the deep had
met death because he resembled a submarine. Now, in peace times, in this
feeding ground of the greatest of all prey, the tables might be turned,
the submarine taken for whale.
The race was on. Across Behring Sea they sped through foam-flecked waves
and driving mists. Pausing only a day at Nome, they pushed on past Port
Clarence, rounded Cape Prince of Wales, and entered boldly into the
great unknown, the Arctic Ocean. A million wild fowl, returning to the
Southland, shot away over their heads. Here and there they saw little
brown seals bob out of the water to stare at them. Once they ran a race
with a great white bear, and again they sighted a school of whales. They
gave these a wide berth, for should they grow friendly and mix their
great flippers with the sub's propeller, trouble would follow. Walrus,
too, were avoided, for they had a playful habit of bumping the
under-surface of any craft they might chance to meet.
At last, far to the North there appeared a glaring white line. They had
reached the ice. Their days of merry sailing on the surface were
well-nigh over. From this time on life would be spent in stuffy,
steel-lined, electric-lighted compartments. But for all that, it would
not be so bad. Openings in the floes would offer them opportunities to
rise for a breath of fresh air, and dangers seemed few enough, since
the ocean everywhere was deep, and ice-bergs, sinking dangerously to a
great depth below the surface, were few. Only the piles of ice and
great six-foot-thick pans would make a white roof to the ocean, which
was not without its advantage, for here the water would always be
delightfully calm.
Shutting off the engines, dropping the funnel, closing the hatch, they
sank quickly beneath the water's surface, and were soon passing below a
marvelous panorama of lights and shadow. Through the thick glass of the
observation windows there flooded tints varying from pale-blue to
ultramarine and deep purple. No sunset could vie with the color schemes
that kaleidoscoped above them. Here a great pile of ancient ice gave the
whole a reddish tinge; and here a broad pan of transparent new ice cast
down the deep-blue of the sky; and again a thicker floe admitted a light
as mellow as expert decorators could have devised.
"It's wonderful!" murmured the Doctor.