“What’s that for, Gardy?” he asked.
“I didn’t know you ever recognized the words ‘had to’ as applicable to
yourself.”
“By jove! And I didn’t, Gardy; I never did in the world—until three
months ago. But then something happened.”
He looked out of the window for a long time.
“No, I’m not going to tell you, Gardy. It’s none of your business. No
offense, you know.”
“Of course not. I didn’t ask.”
“You’ll know without asking, in time. Well, I’ve told you I found I
had to do something—something useful. That was quite a jolt, you know.
Never fancied I’d ever _have_ to do anything, and as for doing
anything useful—rot, my boy, for me, you know. But I found I had to,
and so when I met Brack—By the way, Brack’s the chap who’s responsible
for my ‘doing something’ in this way. Wonderful fellow. Met him in San
Francisco. Don’t mind admitting to you, old man, that I was traveling
pretty fast.
“Went to San Francisco with an idea of going to China, or around the
world, or something like that, to forget. Met him in the Palace
barroom. Saved me. He’d just come back from the North, where he’d lost
his sealing vessel. He said: ‘Why don’t you buy the _Wanderer_ and do
some exploring?’ ‘What’s the _Wanderer_,’ says I. ‘Strongest gasoline
yacht in the world,’ he says. I began to pick up; life held interest,
you know. Went to see the _Wanderer_. Belonged to old Harrison, the
steel man, who’d done a world tour in her and wanted to sell. ‘Where’s
a good place to explore if I do buy her?’ says I, and Brack told me
about Petroff Sound. Ever hear of it before this, Gardy?”
“I’ve seen the name some place, nothing more.”
“I wired old Doc Harper about it after Brack had talked to me about
the place. Asked if it would be a good stunt to go up there; credit to
the old school to have a ‘grad’ get the bones, you know.”
“Bones?” I exclaimed.
“Bones,” said Chanler. “Read that,” and he handed me a long letter
signed by the venerable president of our school.
The Petroff Sound territory unquestionably is a district
which science demands be explored. Mikal Petroff, the
Russian who in 1889 brought out the tibea of a mammoth,
(elephas primigenius) and several bone fragments which
certainly had belonged to an animal of characteristics
similar to the extinct elephant species, was an illiterate
fur-trader and therefore his report of a field of similar
bones frozen in the never-thawing ice of the Sound must
not be accepted as positive information.
In 1892, however, Sturlasson, the Norwegian captain, who
reached the Sound after the wreck of his sealing vessel,
made entries in his diary before dying which substantiate
Petroff’s story. As the location of the Sound, as recorded
by Sturlasson, is three minutes west of the location as
given by your informant, it is certain that the latter
knows of Petroff Sound. No nobler use could be found for
your activity and wealth than the expedition you are
considering. Before expressing myself further, I will give
such data as is obtainable from sources at my command.
Dr. Harper’s data on Petroff Sound was deadly dry scientific matter
which explained that while the possible discovery of frozen mammoth
bones would be of great interest to the scientific world, the study of
the terrain and of conditions surrounding these bones would be of
infinitely greater value.
“Then it’s purely a scientific affair,” I said. “To be of any value it
must be scientific.”
“Positively, dear boy, positively. I’ll give you a lot of stuff to
read up on after luncheon. Old Harper took trouble to wire me to be
sure to have an authentic, coherent report made of the expedition’s
findings. Well, that’s where you came in. I haven’t got brains, but
you have, Gardy, and you’re going to help me out. We sail tonight, by
the way, and we won’t be back until cold weather, so ye who have tears
prepare to shed them between now and midnight.”
“But who is the scientist of the expedition?”
“Brack. He’s a geologist, mineralogist, oceanographer, and general
shark on all that sort of stuff. Expert explorer. Quit exploring and
went sealing. Lost his schooner, and had come down and was living at
the Palace, waiting for capital to start again. Wonderful mind. He’s
ashore at present framing up a little sport to help us pass the
afternoon. We’ll get ready for luncheon now, Gardy. He’ll be here then
and you’ll meet him. Sure you won’t have a tot of grog before eating,
Gardy?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I will, just a little. Simmons will show you to your stateroom.
Hope you’re witty and full of scandal, Gardy, ’cause I’m awf’ly,
awf’ly bored these days and I’ve got to be amused.”
Simmons, summoned by the bell, ushered me into the stateroom next to
Chanler’s. The two rooms were nearly identical in size and
furnishings, and I wondered idly why Chanler, as owner, did not occupy
the owner’s suite forward. Later I had a glimpse into the owner’s
suite through a half-open door, and was more puzzled: the suite was
obviously furnished for feminine occupation.
Captain Brack had not arrived when we entered the dining-saloon of the
_Wanderer_ for luncheon. There were present Mr. Riordan, Chief
Engineer, Dr. Olson, physician to the expedition, and the second
officer, Mr. Wilson. Riordan was a pale, sour-looking Irishman, tall,
loosely built, heavy-jawed, and with a bitter down-curve to the
corners of his large, loose mouth. Once I saw him shoot a sly glance
at George Chanler’s long, thin hands, and the look was not what a
dutiful employee should have bestowed upon so generous an employer.
Opposite Riordan, and beside me, sat Mr. Wilson, second in command,
who had come with the _Wanderer_ from her former owner. He was a
strongly built, silent, brown-faced man, of about thirty-five who
always appeared as if he had just been shaven, as if his clothes had
just been brushed, and whose shoes always seemed to be polished to the
same degree. His face was square and lean, and against the
weather-beaten neck his immaculate collar gleamed with startling
whiteness. He spoke seldom except when spoken to and then modestly and
to the point. “Yes sir” and, “No sir,” were the words most frequently
on his lips.
Dr. Olson was a small, unobtrusive man with a light Vandyke beard, to
whom no one paid any attention and who spoke even less than Mr.
Wilson.
The introductions were barely over when a quick light step fell on the
deck outside and Chanler, languidly waving his hand at the door behind
me, said—
“Mr. Pitt, meet Captain Brack.”
I rose and turned with interest. My interest suddenly gave way to
consternation. A chill went flashing along my spine. I stood like a
dumb man. Captain Brack was the large man whom I had heard called
“Laughing Devil” in Billy Taylor’s saloon a short time before.