Chapter X

In home waters. The celebration in our honor. And

what of my companions? Reveries and Recollections.

The End Page 229

"_The Camera Cannot Lie_"

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

Dr. Walter E. Traprock and Snak Frontispiece

Triplett the Undaunted 23

Un Déjeuner à la Bougie 35

What the Well-dressed Explorer will Wear 47

The Big Hunting 59

The Two Bears 71

The Nine o'Clock Bottle 83

Intensive Optimism 95

The Avowal 107

About to be Captured 117

Something New in Dramatics 127

After the Bath 137

Dinner is Served 147

A Far-off Fashion Plate 157

A Nimrod of the North 167

An Arch Archeologist 177

The Battle on the Brink 187

Ode to the Aurora 197

A Moment Musical 209

Dirty Work at the Igloo? 221

A Consultation 233

Photographs by

N. COURTNEY OWEN

MY NORTHERN EXPOSURE

Chapter I

_The Origin of the Expedition. A memorable meeting. Inklings of a

plot. My innocent enthusiasm. Our personnel. I put the proposition up

to Triplett._

MY NORTHERN EXPOSURE

Chapter I

"Mush!"

The cry of command rang out on the frosty air.

"Mush!"

Again the surrounding ice echoed the word which seems, more than any

other, to tell the whole story of the North.

At its repetition, my sturdy followers hurled their bulks against the

trace-collars while a babel of exhortation shattered the silence.

"Let's go!" "We're off." "Attaboy!"

The Traprock Polar Expedition was on its way!

We had reached the edge of the great polar-pack. Those of my readers

whose knowledge of ice packs is limited to those which can be wrapped

in an ordinary hand-towel can, of course, form no impression of the

magnitude and desolation of the scene which lay before us. As far as

the eye could see....

But I am far north of my narrative. It would be an obvious injustice

to my companions and fellow-polarists to omit mention at this time of

the personnel of our extraordinary expedition, the most complete and

carefully organized that ever set out toward the Big Peg.

Let us go back, then, in memory to the eventful meeting of the

Explorers Union, held in Cambridge on Friday, April 1st, 1921. I can

see the picture with vivid distinctness, the shining bald-heads and

snowy crowns of the aged members, o'er arched by the larger but no more

dignified dome of the Rotunda itself, the bright spots of light on the

polished mahogany table, the swift fingered secretary, who had gorgeous

henna hair, I remember--I can see it all;--and I can hear clearly

the voice of old Dr. Waxman, the President, (whose exploits in the

Ant-Arctic will be well remembered,[2]) as he rose and said,

"Well then, gentlemen, it is settled. Traprock must go."

The company as one man echoed the President's remark.

"Traprock must go!"

With the sound of this verdict ringing in my ears I delivered a short

speech of appreciation. Little did I realize at the time the sinister

influences which had been at work to bring about the very result

which so filled my heart with pride. Little did I know that among the

men who sat by my side that evening sharing with me the hand and hip

of friendship, passing me an occasional peanut from the store which

the President was cracking with his gavel, little did I imagine that

among them were some to whom the words "Traprock must go" meant a far

different thing from what it did to me. But as old Tertullian has it,

"_Nemo me impune lacessit_"--"What you don't know won't hurt you"; and

so from a full heart I thanked them.

At the end of twenty minutes, President Waxman interrupted me to ask,

"When can you start?"

I heard one of the older members whisper, "Not 'when can he start?'

When can he stop?"

"Now." I answered with characteristic brevity, giving the whispering

member a look which he will never forget.

The meeting broke up forthwith. Before leaving the Rotunda, Adolph

Banderholtz, Secretary-for-Polar-Affairs of the Explorers Union (which

I shall hereafter refer to as the E.U.) handed me a typewritten list of

names.

"These are our nominations for the expedition," he said with

his shallow smile. "You will find them admirably equipped in their

respective departments. Good-bye."

TRIPLETT THE UNDAUNTED

Captain Ezra Triplett, the navigator of Dr. Traprock's metamorphic

yawl needs no introduction to students of marine accomplishment.

To lay-readers perhaps a brief preamble is in order. Born a

not-too-simple son of New Bedford, Mass., Triplett has climbed the

rope-ladder of success from cabin-boy to Captaincy, from poop-deck to

mast-head. Gifted with uncanny nautical skill this Captain Courageous

is equally at home on ice.

Seldom if ever has the camera been more successful in catching the

very soul of the sitter, who in this case is standing. But whether

_assis_ or _debout_ Ezra Triplett is always master of the situation.

The animals in the background are not dogs but Amoks, those wild

vulpines of the North which have been trained by hand to obey their

master's voice.

The whip, coiled snake-like about the Captain's friendly artics, is

an entirely superfluous emblem of authority, for this remarkable man

achieves his results by the power of the human eye alone. In this

connection it should be noted that Triplett is limited to a single

optic. The one on the right as one faces the photograph is phony,

the original having literally leaped out of its socket many years

ago during an exciting kangaroo hunt. The eye, rolling away into the

bush, was never recovered in spite of a handsome reward-notice in the

Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide press. Thus Triplett lost not only the

sight of the eye but the eye itself. What the Captain achieves with

his single orb is nothing short of amazing and we have frequently

seen him face-down such fearless fellow-men as George Jean Nathan

merely by turning towards them _his blind_ eye.

Both attitude and costume are superbly characteristic, the massive

oak-timbered frame filling to repletion the bearskin jerkin with

its practical one-man-top. As a protection for the nether limbs

Triplett invariably wore light woolen pajamas with gee-string exits

and entrances. This scant covering was ample even in the severest

weather, owing to the fact that Triplett's own limbs are clothed with

a heavy coat of natural fur which, in his own words, is "grown on the

place."

[Illustration: Triplett the Undaunted]

He extended a limp hand which I hurt as much as possible by using a

peculiar grip taught me by an old swaboda in the Malay peninsula. He

went deathly white and faded from my view. I fear I do not always

realize my strength.

Banderholtz is one of the type of arm-chair explorers which I

particularly detest. Everything he does is superficial. In the early

days when airplanes were safer than they are now because they would

not rise more than six feet from the ground, he gained a great

reputation as a birdman on the strength of once having been up in a

captive-balloon in the Bois de Boulogne.

But this is no place for personal animosities. I caught the midnight

train to New York, rang for the Porter and insisted that my section

be un-made and a table furnished. Now that the matter was settled I

was burning with a desire to work out the details. All night I toiled

away, the click of my typewriter being the only sound except an

occasional curse from the occupants of nearby berths. An old gentleman

in upper-seven disturbed me somewhat with his snoring but gradually

the sound blended itself with the snorts of the sea-lions which I

was already hearing in imagination and I became oblivious to all

interruption. When the train pulled into Grand Central my preliminary

work was complete. My various lists, personnel, food, equipment,

scientific objects, etc. had all been sketched out. The remaining weeks

of April were devoted to the detail of complete organization, all of

which I attended to personally.

Since I have already spoken of the E.U. list of names, I may as well

dispose of the subject at this time. Quite naturally it was composed,

in the main, of scientific men, men famed each in his particular field.

I knew them by their works, and a casual glance at the list convinced

me that our expedition would compare with the best in its scientific

departments.

The first name was that of Warburton Plock, whose reputation in

anthropology, zoology and biology fitted him to size up and classify

any living thing. Plock's work on simians and femurae is the accepted

monkey-manual in most menageries. I shall never forget the impression

it made upon me the first time I read it.

The important studies of cartography, oceanography, topography and

kindred subjects were allotted to Elmer E. Miskin, of the E.U. library

forces. Miskin was what one might call a self-made explorer. He had

worked his way up from the bottom of the paper basket, through a long

course in filing and cataloguing. While a boy in the grade schools of

his native town of Peapack, N.J. he had shown early promise by winning

five consecutive gold stars in map-drawing and one of his prize-winning

creations with the Orange Mountains represented by caterpillars glued

on the cardboard now hangs behind the door of the Principal's office of

the Hooker Avenue School. This was his first experience in the field.

Three other names complete the E.U. list, Croyden Sloff, magnetician,

electrician and victrologist, Winchester Wigmore, snow- and ice-expert

and Bartholomew Dane, egyptologist.

It was with surprise that I saw the name of Warburton Plock. We had

met frequently in the old days when we used to gather round the keg at

the E.U. meetings and our feelings had always been antipathetic. But I

resolved that no fancied grudges should cloud the sky of our venture

and immediately wired Plock a cordial telegram saying, "Am counting on

your loyal support and hope I shall get it."

It is hardly necessary to say that my own selections for travelling

companions included my old friends Herman Swank, the artist, and Reg

Whinney, scientist, whose loyalty and devotion during my South Sea

travels have forged links of friendship which can never be broken.

Swank's enthusiasm at the prospect of actually painting the aurora

borealis from life was unbounded. He at once thought of his colleagues

in the colorful modern school. "I'll have them skinned a mile," he

cried.

Other men may possibly excel in special lines, but I am confident

that as an all-round scientist, Whinney can give them all cards and

spades. His fund of general information saved me thousands of dollars

for he combined several people in one. For instance he knew quite

enough about medicine to be our official doctor. As soon as he received

the polar invitation he set about studying polar diseases, snow

blindness, scurvy, chill-blains, frost-bite and so on. He was an expert

photographer and got results from a 3-1/4 × 4-1/4 Kodak that surprised

everybody including himself. He had also become keenly interested in

radiography and brought a complete outfit aboard with him, using his

own body as a spool upon which to coil his antennae until they could be

rigged in a proper manner. Most men have two sides, but Whinney had

at least a dozen. He combined many men in one. Way back in our college

days I recall that he was taken on the Christmas trip of the Glee Club

because he could play the banjo and he made the banjo-club because he

could sing. He wasn't good at either but he averaged well.

In addition to Swank and Whinney, I made another selection based on

painstaking thought. I asked my life-long friend, Sydney Freemantle

Frissell, to go along as recreationist and entertainer. Northern

expeditions, especially through the long hours of the Arctic night are

very dull affairs. Along about midnight, with morning three months

away, the party is apt to die. Then is when a man like Frissell is

invaluable. He has no brains whatever, but the most amazing vitality

and can wake up any assembly by sheer audacity. I deliberated a long

time as to whether to get Ed Wynn or Frissell, but finally decided in

favor of Frizzy as he could come and Wynn couldn't.

Needless to say, our Captain was the same staunch old oak-framed

navigator, Ezra Triplett, who had gotten the Kawa into so many tight

holes in the past.

"What ship?" he asked when I put it up to him.

"Kawa," I said.

"Done, by thunder," he roared.

Honest Ezra Triplett! Loyal, staunch friend, quaint, saturnine,

creature that he is.

"Doc," he said, "I'd like darn well to take one of my wives along.

It's gonter be kinder lonely up there in the ice with all you boys off

gunnin'."

I smiled indulgently at the old man's foibles.

"Which one do you want to take?"

"The gal from Sausalito," he explained. "I ain't seen her in about a

year, an' I'm gettin' kinder fed-up on ... you know ... Noo York."

I nodded. "We'll have to keep it secret. You know I've absolutely

forbidden it. She can join us at St. Johns and come aboard as wardrobe

woman. No one must suspect that she is your wife."

Triplett shifted his quid and slowly winked his false eye.

"She ain't," he said.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: "Ants of the Ant-Arctic" by W.W. Waxman, F.O.B.]

Chapter II

_Our triumphant departure. A man missing. Wigmore's gallant

embarkation. The Kawa herself. A new idea in construction. A few

boresome details._

Chapter II

From her berth in the Harlem, the Kawa steamed, or to be more exact,

gasolined, to the landing stage of the N.Y.Y.C. station at the foot

of East Twenty-second St. Our progress had been one of triumph. Every

passing ship had hailed us by bell, whistle or horn, to which was added

the hoarse blare of sirens from the converted breweries which line the

banks. Gay stevedores threw their caps in the air and tossed lumps of

coal in our direction, surely a magnificent tribute with coal at its

present price. Street urchins shouted unintelligible remarks and all

manner of citizens joined in the usual riparian rites. Passing under

the stern of a United Fruit Company steamer, the cook waved a farewell

from his galley and dumped a bucket of potato peelings in our path.

Off Blackwell's Island the scene was particularly affecting, the

inmates giving me an appreciative greeting, the trusties rushing to

the sea wall and gazing longingly in my direction while those in

durance vile plucked off their shoes and beat upon the cell bars to

attract my attention. With my glasses, I thought I recognized one or

two familiar faces but I can not be sure. At any rate I feel certain

that their hearts went out to me even as mine went in to them, and I

could but paraphrase the remark of Dean Bullock, "There, but for the

Grace of God, is the whole Traprock Expedition."

UN DÉJEUNER À LA BOUGIE

The candle which Dr. Traprock presented to the beautiful Ikik as

a love-token was generously shared by her with her co-wives. Its

appeal, curiously, was entirely gustatory, the flavor of refined wax

being a revelation to the native taste after their customary fare of

seal-fat and fish-oil.

Here we see the charming Yalok nibbling her share of the prized

dainty. The candle shown is one of six, specially cast for Dr.

Traprock by the Candlemas Club of Pittsburgh. Each one was designed

to last a month and thus bring light into the Arctic night. The

donors doubtless will be surprised and pleased at the knowledge that

the heroic-size of their gift met with great appreciation though not,

perhaps, in the way intended.

"Evening after evening," says Dr. Traprock in a private letter to

the editor, "the maidens sate about our Primus, passing the candle

from hand to hand much as we pass a loving-cup, though with less

reluctance. Each would nibble perhaps an inch from the coveted

cylinder and then hand it to her neighbor, crying, 'Lapatok's turn!'

or 'Klipitok's turn!' with the heartiest good-will imaginable."

The eminent explorer adds in a later paragraph, "Yalok seemed the

most greedily fond of the great taper and on one occasion narrowly

escaped death from choking on the wick which became wound about her

palate. Seeing her inordinate appetite for the strange food, Ikik

gallantly ceded her share, but I solaced the latter by secretly

giving her the beeswax tomato from my mending kit upon which she

feasted in private with vast delight!"

It is hard to imagine a more touching human sidelight than the above

intimate incident. The Editor has forwarded a copy of Dr. Traprock's

letter to the Candlemas Club where it is suitably framed and hung in

the swimming-pool.

[Illustration: Un Déjeuner à la Bougie]

The reception at the Yacht Club station was a gay affair. It was

positively my first appearance upon any landing-stage. The efficient

steward had arranged an authoritative punch and many a hearty toast

was pledged and responded to with feeling. But we were soon on our way

again. My final orders sealed with the official-seal of the Explorers

Union, were placed in my hands by the venerable President, Waxman, who

was greatly affected at parting. He had been eating peanuts of which

he was passionately fond, and I recall that he thrust a few of them

into my hands after saying, "Traprock, we expect a great deal ..." he

choked, and was unable to complete his sentence.

At exactly two o'clock, on the flood tide, we backed out of the

pier and under Triplett's guidance worked our way sideways to

mid-channel. The steward at the Yacht Club dipped his colors and

fired a commodore's salute with his brass half-pounder to which I

replied in proper fashion, lining up the entire expedition at the

rail, eyes-right, while Triplett blew our Klaxon and shook a chain of

sleigh bells which Frissell had brought along "because they seemed so

northern."

It was during this lining-up process that I discovered that one man

was missing. It was Wigmore, the snow and ice expert, who had failed

to put in an appearance and I was greatly depressed by the fact which

seemed to me to be an evil omen. Moreover he was an extremely valuable

man with vast experience in alpine work as well as in the practical

phases of glaciology with which he came in contact in his work as

general-manager of the Higley Ice Cream Cone Co. But marine law is

rigid. We were due to sail at two sharp, Wigmore or no Wigmore, and we

sped off without him.

But my disappointment was to be almost immediately assuaged. When we

were about an eighth of a mile above the Canal Street bridge, the last

of the great arches which spans the river, Swank rushed up to me and

cried, "Look, look. There he is----!"

I followed the direction of his pointing finger. Sure enough, there

was Wigmore, a tiny speck, running along the center span of the

bridge. He was in full Alpine costume with rope, ax, pick and felt

hat, and I saw to my amazement that he was going to board us. With

the nimbleness of a chamois he scrambled over the railing, instantly

beginning a spider-like descent of his rope which he had hooked above.

Silhouetted against the sky I could see the curved feather in his cap,

a minute question mark. The question in my mind was one of hair-raising

anxiety. Would he make it, or not? Upon the answer seemed to depend

the whole success or failure of our venture. His descent was timed to

a nicety. Just as the Kawa plowed beneath him he gave a shake of his

body, loosening the fastening, and dropped lightly to the deck amid our

resounding cheers. Was it only in imagination that I saw the Goddess of

Liberty wave her gigantic, torch-bearing arm, as if she too felt the

thrill of a brave deed, nobly done?

"Bravo, Wigmore," I cried. "But what detained you?"

"My equipment, sir," he said, coming to attention. "They wouldn't let

me into my apartment. The clerk thought I was a line-man for the Edison

Company."

We all laughed heartily at the incident and settled down to

routine-life on ship-board. Our last farewell from the great port

of the Metropolis was from the Detention Ward on Ellis Island. The

Pesthouse band was out in full-force and blew germs into the air with

much enthusiasm, but Triplett had laid a course to windward so that we

felt no apprehension.

It is perhaps not amiss at this point to say something regarding the

highly important part played in our expedition by the Kawa herself. She

may be said, I think, to be the star of a distinguished cast, or more

accurately, that she divided stellar honors with me. For one of the

conditions which was part of my bargain with good old Waxman and his

associates was that I should actually take my ship to the Pole!

The expression on the faces of the worthy committee of the E.U. when I

accepted this astounding condition is something that I must leave to

the reader's imagination.

"Yes, gentlemen," I had said to them. "It can be done, and it will be

done. Either I hitch the Kawa to the Pole or I never return!"

My announcement was greeted with cheers.

Immediately upon my return from Boston I closeted myself with Captain

Triplett in the cozy nautical room of the Book-lovers Library and we

jointly went over the layout of the Kawa from stem to stern. We were

surrounded by files of drawings and a great mass of data upon naval

architecture with special reference to Arctic conditions. From the

outset I was imbued with a conviction that we should find nothing of

real importance in what had been done before. A careful study of my

predecessors convinced me that they had uniformly been on the wrong

track. What they had tried to do was to fight the ice. What I proposed

was to humor it.

The outstanding feature of such vessels as the Fram and the Roosevelt

was their rigidity. Their construction followed the general principle

of the onion, consisting of numerous layers of heavy oak sheathing

shored up from the inside with a veritable cob-web of balks, stanchions

and braces. In addition to this, the sides of these ships were shaped

so as to offer as small a vulnerable target as possible. The idea was

that the stupendous pinch and pressure of the ice-pack failing to get a

firm hold of the vessel should project her up from and out of the ice.

This idea is graphically illustrated by an ordinary, household orange

seed pinched sharply between the thumb and forefinger. But I could

not help smiling at the naive short-sightedness of these earlier men,

for, assuming as sometimes happened, that the constructive features

functioned as outlined, what then? The ship was merely lifted up until

she canted over at a ridiculous and uncomfortable angle where she lay

on the ice, a helpless and absurd spectacle. Further motion in any

direction was plainly impossible except at the whim of the floe itself

which often evinces a contradictory tendency to move southward instead

of northward as per schedule.

While not wishing to discard entirely the idea of elusive conformation

I saw at once that radical innovations would be necessary in order to

accomplish my object. In a word, I proposed to convert the Kawa into a

non-rigid type of vessel.

"Triplett," I said, during our first conference, "what is the

slipperiest animal you know?"

The ancient mariner scratched his head reflectively before replying.

"Seals."

"Right!" I cried. "Go to the seal, thou sluggard! Triplett, it's an

idea! We'll make the Kawa as easy to handle as a greased hot water

bottle."

For many days we worked over the plans and eventually began actual

operations on the Kawa herself, hauling her out for the purpose at

Tutbury's shipyard. She was completely eviscerated. Her oak ribs and

keel were removed and replaced by Austrian bent-wood, of the finest

temper. A thin layer of yew-planking was laid over her sides with

lapped, sliding joints, filled with elastic roofing-cement. Outside

of this came a second layer of slippery elm (3/8" × 2-1/2") laid

diagonally so that the joints crossed those of the yew. The entire

hull was then covered with seal-skin, fur side out. When she slid from

the ways on her re-launching the Kawa took the water as noiselessly

as a musk-rat, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we made

her fast as she slipped from the ship-wright's grasp at the slightest

pressure.[3]

"Gosh-t-a'mighty," grinned Triplett. "She's a seal!"

You may be sure I utilized Whinney's scientific ingenuity and it

is to him I owe two innovations which contributed greatly to our

success. One of these was the magnetic bowsprit, highly sensitized by

induction-coils run from the exhaust of our 20 h.p. Tutbury engine;

the other was the thermal water-line, the temperature of which could

be raised to 180 degrees by turning a switch which connected with our

storage batteries. Both of these inventions worked perfectly.

Thanks to the bowsprit the problem of steering our svelte craft, about

which Triplett had expressed some doubts, became a simple matter. Left

to herself she invariably came up into the north and as that was the

direction we wished to go all was well. The thermal water-line made

passage through all but the thickest ice comfortable and easy. For many

years the Kawa had had no water-line whatever so that we were uncertain

how she would behave. The new one consisted of a thin layer of copper

fastened to the elm siding, underneath the seal skin. I like to think

that the little Kawa behaved so nobly because she knew her water-line

was not visible.

Thus we arrived at a type of construction which gave us the strength

and elasticity of a water-tight basket. What we had lost in rigidity

we gained in feather-like lightness. Before her engines were installed

the Kawa floated on the surface like a toy balloon. When loaded, as she

usually was, she drew two-feet-six. The installation of the engine and

stowing of stores also had a tendency to stabilize the hull and keep

her masts pointing upward which was a distinct advantage.

In addition to these marine features it was necessary to consider the

eventuality of encountering solid, impenetrable ice in the region of

the pole, ice through which even the thermal water-line would not make

it possible for us to melt our way. Authorities agree that such ice may

be expected north of eighty-six, even though we planned to time our

arrival in that vicinity for mid-summer when, as is well known, the

weather is extremely hot. This is the fascination of Arctic travel; one

never knows what to expect. Our problem, then, was to make the Kawa

equally at home on the floe or in the open leads, a glorified sea-sled.

My previous experience with the various types of sledges convinced me

that for my purpose they were useless. My object was to take the Kawa

to the Pole. Then why not make the Kawa herself a sled?

I recognized instantly the feasibility of my scheme, which consisted of

folding guide-runners framed of carefully selected greenheart. When not

in use these runners extended horizontally along the counter, giving

my little craft a singularly bird-like appearance. Incidentally they

formed convenient luggage carriers similar to those attached to the

running boards of automobiles and, in fair weather, could be used as

piazzas or sleeping porches covered with a high pile of bear-skins to

make occupancy easy.

WHAT THE WELL-DRESSED EXPLORER WILL WEAR

Fine feathers do not make fine birds, but aigrettes are still forty

dollars a stalk. Something of this thought evidently dominated the

mind of Warburton Plock in the selection of his wardrobe. Plock, who

is shown against a typically iglootinous background, was the only

member of the expedition who paid no heed to his leader's advice in

this regard, namely, to dress off-the-Eskimos. Instead of so doing

he ordered his outfit built for him by Buskwa, the leading tailor

of Nome. The garments were taken aboard at St. John's and formed a

large part of Plock's luggage. They varied in design from a simple

going-away suit to the most elaborate mufti, sports costume and

evening dress.

In the attached fashion-plate the fastidious explorer is clad in

the well-known "Buskwa-model" morning suit, which is made from the

pelts of unborn teddy bears. This, according to the wearer, is the

super-correct thing for the Young-Man-About-the-Pole. The accessory

cane and cigarette are personal touches calculated to attract the

attention of whomsoever he may meet north of Eighty-six. Vanity, in

the Great White Spaces as elsewhere, precedes a fall, but usually

only by a step or so. To be fair to the house of Buskwa it should be

stated that Plock's garments were invariably tastefully designed and

well-made. No detail of findings or linings was slighted. They were,

however, entirely unsuited to the rigors of Polar climate.

The Buskwa trade is chiefly derived from the wealthier Chicoutimi

families living along the Mad River and points South. To single out

a single defect, the self-drawing fish-pockets are doubtless useful

features to a people who spend many hours in the salmon streams. In

the icy polar region the cold air naturally forced its way through

the sartorial scuppers with the result that the wearer was soon

forced to don another suit to avoid freezing. At the time of his

attempted escape Plock was wearing his entire wardrobe, seven suits

in all, which were recovered with the body of the fugitive. The

clothes were later eaten by members of the return-party, who more

than once had occasion to pay tribute to the tailor who had selected

such delicious materials.

[Illustration: What the Well-dressed Explorer Will Wear]

Thus you have a fairly complete idea of my metamorphosed vessel,

adapted to meet any and all conditions.

But one word more, as to stores and equipment, and I will promise not

to bore my readers further with these deadly technical details, which

I fully realize have prevented the success of many a tale of Arctic

adventure. In making up my lists I was guided by a principle which I

have followed all my life, namely, that of taking with me only those

things for which a proper substitute could not be found in the high

latitudes. This simple thought I always practise in a restaurant, for

instance, where I never by any chance order anything which might be

served in my home. Just prior to leaving New York I heard a gentleman

ask for corned-beef hash in the Ritz! I could but pity him. Yet it is

this apparently trivial tendency which has sent many an expedition

off to the Arctic circle burdened with voluminous packs of furs and

crushing weights of supplies, all of which could be most easily secured

from the Eskimos themselves who, with the possible exception of the

Cambodians, are the most friendly people I have ever encountered.[4]

Our clothing then was of the lightest. We started our journey dressed

in plain business suits such as are worn by guides in the Canadian

wilderness, but stowed in our duffle-bags were ample quantities of

light underwear, both union and non-union, while included in my

personal kit were three pairs of medium-weight, woolen longs with

reinforced or sliding seats to make progress over the ice more easy.

For outer wear during the warm season we carried the conventional

tennis flannels and Palm-Beach suits and I am thankful to Swank for the

suggestion that we include the tropical helmets which had shielded us

so faithfully in the Filberts. They proved of inestimable value.

Most travellers into the land of refrigeration insist upon taking in

with them bales of hay with which to pack their boots and thus absorb

the moisture which would otherwise result in aggravated cases of cold

feet. For this particular product I substituted a type of breakfast

food of my own invention called "wheat whiskers" which comes in

compacted cubes of farinaceous filament. These, when needed, can be

teased out to four times their initial bulk. The advantages of this

product are evident, since it is both excellent boot-packing and

nourishing food, or, as Frizzie put it "good for both hoof and mouth

disease." Another dual personality in our list of stores was the solid

alcohol, primarily intended for fuel, but also edible. This necessity

was under my immediate jurisdiction as the responsible head of the

party.

Too much credit can never be given to those great American

institutions, the 5-and-10-cent stores, from which we were able to

obtain at slight cost the necessary snow-goggles, ice-picks, cooking

utensils, etc., which form a part of every expedition. From the same

source we also purchased a sizable number of toys for use in bartering

with the natives. All these lighter elements of our baggage were

rolled in bolts of mosquito netting in the folds of which were packed

fly-swatters (two per man), bottles of citronella, green fishing-veils,

and other objects useful in combating the teeming insect life which

springs into being at the first touch of the Arctic sun.

These, then, were our general stores. Each individual looked after the

equipment necessary for his own department. Sections of the Kawa,

amidship, were allotted in alphabetical order, where, with a narrow

aisle between, were tightly crammed Plock's anthropological charts,

Miskin's map-cardboards, surveying instruments and colored crayons,

Sloff's batteries, Wigmore's alpine ice instruments (including a

horn), Dane's mummy-cases and scarabs, Whinney's camera supplies and

radio-outfit, and Swank's paints and palettes. Frissell's personal

impedimenta was unique and had no bearing whatever upon scientific

research. It consisted of eighteen different fancy-dress costumes,

wrapped up in which were a ukelele and six pogo sticks. At later

intervals he kept producing smaller musical instruments, magic egg-cups

and other entertaining devices which more than once rescued our spirits

from the depths of black despair. Triplett carried, as usual, only his

pouch of extra glass eyes and a small, well-worn, black bag which, to

my certain knowledge, he never opened. I think he felt that it gave

him dignity and was demanded of him, just as baggage is considered

necessary by some punctilious hotel clerks. Whenever we left ship

for more than a day, Triplett insisted on carrying his black bag. He

looked as if he were about either to embalm a body or tune a piano. I

could never quite decide which. One day when he was ill, during the

latter part of our trip, I peeked in the bag. It contained the upper

half of a pair of pajamas and the photograph of a beautiful,--but I

feel that respect for the old fellow's romantic heart, hidden deep

beneath his tough hide, forbids me to say more. Somehow that little

black bag became to me a symbol of its owner, concealing beneath its

alligator-skin rind the elements of some exquisite life-incident!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: A quarter-scale model of the re-modeled Kawa has been

presented to the Smithsonian Institute by the Jibboom Club of New

London, Ct. Needless to say all structural and mechanical details are

thoroughly protected.]

[Footnote 4: As guest of King Sisawath II in 1908, I was presented

with the Bkatha or Freedom of the Palace, which was more than I could

possibly use.]

Chapter III

_The choice of a route. Off at last. We take aboard a passenger.

Seeds of discontent. Into the long twilight. Radio reversals. The ice

at last. Trouble with our water-line. Its happy solution._

Chapter III

Those of my readers who have not deserted during the cataloguing of

our supplies may be interested in knowing something of our route. The

lines of approach to the Pole are, of course, infinite in number. Let

me illustrate this fact in a simple way.

A direct projection of the northern hemisphere would resemble a pie

with the Equator at its rim and the Pole at its center. Now imagine

our pie cut into four quarters. We have, obviously, four ways to the

Pole. But now suppose the arrival of unexpected company, four in

number; a less generous distribution of our pie becomes necessary. The

scientific housewife would at once solve the difficulty by cutting the

pie on intervening lines. We now have eight pieces to our pie and,

consequently, eight ways to our pole. If we have eight we may

have sixteen, if sixteen, thirty-two, and so on, by subdivision, to

infinity. Q.E.D.[5]

THE BIG HUNTING

As soon as the early August frosts warn the Eskimo huntsman that

winter is nigh, he begins to think about his food-supply. In fact

this is a thing he thinks about most of the time. Food is the

paramount consideration in polar-regions. It is the standard of

value, the source of warmth, the unit of measure it is everything.

There are in reality but two seasons, Winter and Summer, in the

regions immediately surrounding the Pole. Hunting is impossible in

the one because of the intense cold. But between the two periods come

a few days, a week at most, of intermediate temperature, too short to

be called Spring or Autumn, but too valuable to be lost. It is during

these short spells that the native must lay in his winter or summer

supply of meat, skins, etc. Consequently he is always in a hurry.

The photograph shows Makuik at his favorite sport of

seal-slaughtering. Dr. Traprock tells us that owing to the amazing

abundance of game in these remote regions it was possible for the

mighty hunter to pursue his prey for four days without stopping for

rest or food save for an occasional hunk of flesh or fat torn from

one of his victims _en passant_.

"Makuik's elation," says the intrepid author, "became almost

unpleasant." As the herds of seal, walrus and otary accumulated about

him their blood seemed to go to his head. Uttering a low crooning cry

which rose to a wild screech at every thrust of his raktok (trident)

he leaped about the floe with the soft agility of a Mordkin. An

extraordinary sight was to see him hurl his weapon into a passing

flock of pemmican, spearing a fine bird on each of its prongs. But

his favorite game was seals because of their comparative inability to

escape and their rich food-value. Incidentally the skins would make

excellent gifts for his wives during the approaching Yule-tide season

(Kryptok-Boknik-lok or Feast of Food). Makuik evidently believed in

"doing his Christmas stabbing early."

At the close of the "big hunting," Makuik had to his credit, besides

countless other game, four hundred and seventy seals. The photograph

pictures him making three holes in one, a feat which no golf-player

can ever hope to rival.

[Illustration: The Big Hunting]

The question immediately arose as to which route I should select. I

decided on the straightest, just as I had decided, in Cambridge, to

take the Kawa to the North Pole instead of the South because it was

nearer. Obviously I must reach the polar ice-pack before making my

beeline as my ship was adapted for but two elements, ice and water.

Travel over bare ground was not contemplated. Wheels had never entered

my head. How nearly this fact cost us our lives makes a thrilling story

but one which comes later.

Thus, our object was to round Cape Race and pick our way through Davis

Strait which runs due north through Baffin Bay, well beyond the Arctic

Circle. This is the most direct water route from New York.

Our last glimpse of the homeland was the white water over Sow-and-Pigs

Ledge off Cuttyhunk, from which we set a course North by slightly

East to pick up the gas-beacon at mouth of St. John's Harbor. As we

swashed along outside of Cuttyhunk I saw through my glasses a signal

flag waved from the piazza of the old fishing club which I recalled

having visited as a small boy in '88 when the last sea-bass was hauled

from those waters. A moment later a small boat put off from the beach

near the lighthouse and rowed in our direction. It was a hard pull for

the sturdy islanders but we stood by and finally took their helmsman

aboard who handed me a letter marked "Rush" which proved to be a notice

from the Westchester Lighting Company informing me that there was still

a payment due on my gas range. As I had opened this missive in the

privacy of my cabin I was able to go on deck and tell the messenger,

rather curtly, that there was "no answer" and the good fellows rowed

away, giving us a hearty cheer as we turned our nose to the open sea.

St. John's was our first port-of-call for I had to redeem my promise

to Triplett to pick up the woman, "Sausalito," as he called her. I

think the old man was inspired by the thought of seeing her, for he

gave us an exhibition of navigation that was an eye-opener. After

leaving Cuttyhunk we ran into a dense fog. For forty-eight hours

this continued, thick and impenetrable. Once we heard the distant

sound of the cod-fishers on the Banks singing their morning song--an

unspeakable chantey about a dissolute person named Mary Brown--but we

saw no gleam of binnacle, sun or shorelight. Yet through this murk,

with the magnetic pull on our bowsprit tending always to veer us from

our course, Triplett led us with such accuracy that at exactly the

appointed time we caught the distant flash of the beacon and knew that

our first leg had been completed.

My followers knew nothing of my plan to take Sausalito aboard and

my instructions to Triplett were to keep silent. The lady's first

appearance was not reassuring. She was standing on a dilapidated

pier head, valiantly defending herself from volleys of stones hurled

by native village lads. Crouching behind a rusty try-out kettle she

responded in kind, directing her missiles with vicious speed and

accuracy. A curious morning picture.

"That's her," chuckled Triplett. "She allus were a speritted female."

The others looked on wonderingly as the Captain dropped over the stern

into our cockle-boat, pulled toward the dock and took the bulky figure

aboard.

"Who the devil is this?" asked Plock, scowling darkly, as they neared

our counter.

"My sewing woman," I said briefly. "Lend a hand, man."

He did so with an ill grace, and a moment later I saw him whispering

to Wigmore and Sloff with every evidence of displeasure. I myself was

not a little upset at the over-exuberance of Triplett's manner toward

this strange woman. She was a dark, unkempt creature with bright

gray-blue eyes which contrasted strangely with her brown cheeks. Her

hair, what we could see of it, under her man's cap, was nondescript;

teeth irregular. Two extraordinary qualities, however, she had--a smile

which vivified her oddness with an unearthly beauty, a brilliant,

mocking irradiation that made her look magically youthful, a crone

metamorphosed into a little girl, and a voice--O, a mystery of still

waters!--such a voice!--a deep resonant contralto, at once caressing

and vibrant, with strange breaks and husky notes, melting softnesses

and brazen clangor! The Captain was delighted with the reunion.

"My leetle apple!" he cried, patting her, and, indeed, the term was

not inexact as her dusky cheeks flashed with pleasure 'neath his great

paws.

"How you've grown, Ezra!" she laughed, pointing to his capacious girth.

"Ain't I, though," he assented; "mostly 'round the water-line!"

I felt that it was time I intervened.

"Gentlemen," I said to the group which had gathered in the waist, "this

is Mrs. Sausalito, our sewing woman...."

Then Triplett fairly spiked my guns by adding,--

"And my wife!"

I could have killed the old fool! I hustled them both below and turned

back to face an indignant ship's company.

Block bustled up officiously. "See here, Traprock," he blustered, "we

don't like this. You know...."

"STOP!" I commanded in a voice that shook the Kawa to the place where

her keel would have been had she had one. "To begin with, I want you,

Plock, to know that I am not 'Traprock' to you or to any one else. I am

'_Doctor_ Traprock, _Sir_'--do you understand?"

Plock growled an uneasy assent as I continued.

"I know perfectly well what is in your minds, namely, that the

understanding was that there should be no wives on this voyage. This

Sausalito woman was engaged by me as seamstress. If she is Triplett's

wife, as he says, it is news to me. In any case I want it thoroughly

understood that I am Boss on this ship. To your posts! Ready-about to

wear ship. Triplett, take the helm." (He had come smirking out of the

cabin.)

With surly "Aye, aye, sirs," they took up their duties, as I struck

sharply on the table-bell which was screwed to the combing, the

faithful Tatbury began its revolutions and once more the little Kawa

slid gracefully through the long Atlantic swells.

It was a magnificent day but I was frankly depressed. Already a cloud

of discord had arisen in the ranks. Already an ominous rift had opened.

What might happen in the future only the future could tell. I was

filled with disquieting memories of what had occurred to other Arctic

explorers whose cohorts had been split by dissension and bitterness. I

knew full well how they had separated, sometimes to perish under the

very shadow of the Pole itself, sometimes to fight their way back to

civilization in broken fragments which spent the remainder of their

lives in vilifying each other. Little did I realize how much more

tragic was to be the outcome of this apparently trivial incident.

In the meantime I was lulled into false security. Two weeks of glorious

weather made our progress exceed even my sanguine schedules. Once clear

of Cape Race our course lay almost due north and the full force of the

magnetic pull on our bowsprit could be utilized. To this we added, in

favoring weather, a mainsail forward and a jigger aft so that we were

able to conserve our fuel supply most satisfactorily.

Our trip through Davis Strait into Baffin Bay was a sight-seeing trip

new to most of my men and I was glad to be able to point out to them

the objects of interest along either shore, on the left the cozy

English hamlets of Mugford, Chislinghurst-on-Trent and Philpot Island,

on the right the quaint Greenlandic fishing villages of Fiskernoes,

Svartenhunk and Sükkertoppen, names eloquent of their respective

origins.

The days grew steadily longer. We were approaching the long twilight.

On a memorable Tuesday in June we crossed the Arctic Circle. This is

always an exciting event but particularly so for those who experience

it for the first time. Needless to say, we observed the ritual honored

by mariners the world over. This follows closely the ceremony

celebrated in the tropics when "crossing the line," with the variation

that, instead of Neptune coming aboard, the aquatic visitor is the

North King, a snowy potentate who is received with due honor by all the

ship's company, especially the novices, who are forced to bring him

presents and perform tricks at his behest. We hove-to in a narrow inlet

on the Baffin shore known by the romantic name of Petty's Bight, where

we spent a blithe two hours. Triplett played the kingly rôle while I

acted as master of ceremonies. I must admit that this did not tend to

calm the somewhat ruffled feelings of my following but it made a merry

interlude in our routine.

During the long evenings Sausalito, laying aside her busy needle, would

read to us books from her own library, "The Sheik" and the works of

Ethel Dell, Harold Bell Wright and the Johnstons, Sir Harry and Owen.

It was surprising how entertaining these things became to our little

isolated band. Often after a particularly serious page the reader's

sunlike smile would flood the main-deck and the whole company would

burst into peals of laughter; then once more we would sit enthralled.

It must have been her voice. Frissell, alone, absented himself from

these readings and sat apart, lost in the perusal of "If Winter Comes"

which he supposed was a work intended for polar novices.

At this juncture Whinney was having a most annoying time with his radio

outfit upon which I had counted to keep the company amused. The best he

could get was a series of noises which, in themselves, were interesting

but scarcely entertaining. At times the magna-vox or "loud squeaker" as

Frissell called it, would emit dismal cat-calls such as I have often

heard from the upper gallery of theatres.

"That's Arlington!" Whinney would exclaim.

Again the sound would be that of penny-a-pack firecrackers such as one

gives to children.

"Newark is calling us!" Whinney would say seriously. "Wait a minute."

A series of readjustments and Jimmy Valentine motions with the

combination would result in a raucous scraping as if a discouraged

Victrola had cut its throat.

"Pittsburgh!" would be the operator's triumphant comment. "Wait a

minute!"

We waited many a minute and hour, patiently expectant, but nothing

happened. The most trying thing was Whinney's explanation. He would

fix us mournfully with his brown eyes, while at the same time trying to

fix the machine and say solemnly:

"The length of the antennae is in direct relation to the wave length of

the tuner. At the same time the vacuum tubes must be connected with or,

at least, related by oscillation to the tuning circuit. When a ship is

in motion the undue number of electric 'strays' disturbs the delicate

filaments of the tickler and absolutely wrecks the radio activity."

"I had one of those Radio-Rex things," cried Swank. "My sweetie gave it

to me for Xmas."

"I suppose you gave her a tickler," rumbled Triplett.

THE TWO BEARS

Ikik is solemn. Ikik is offended. Her tender heart is roused. Why?

In the answer lies the story of one of the most charming incidents

of the Kawa's entire polar-cruise. In another picture the reader

will see Makuik descending with murderous intent, on the back of a

large polar-bear. Shortly after the kill it was discovered that this

bear had just become a mother. Her offspring--there was but one--was

immediately adopted by Ikik. Mother-love, which flourishes even in

the high latitudes, surrounded the little cub with every protection.

First reared as a bottle-bear, the bearlet passed safely through

the teething period and soon became the regular attendant of his

foster-mother who fed him solicitously at every meal.

It was this devotion which brought about the disturbance recorded by

the camera. Warburton Plock seems to have developed an insatiable

fondness for toasted-blubber. Not content with his own share he

resorted to the cowardly practice of prigging from Toktok, as this

_ursus minimus_ was called. His method was characteristic of the man,

combining cunning with greed. Having privately constructed a small

cube of wood corresponding in size to the usual blubber-portion he

would attract Toktok's attention and ostentatiously bury the decoy

in the snow at some distance from the actual feeding ground. Then,

while the little chap was busily digging for the supposed dainty

Plock would swipe the real blubber which Makuik distributed with an

impartial hand.

Ikik was no match in logic for the wily scientist.

"You are robbing my baby!" she wailed in the present instance.

"Yes," agreed Plock, "and your baby is under the impression that he

is robbing me."

Needless to say Dr. Traprock settled this matter in his own direct

fashion. As he said in conversation with the writer, "It is

impossible to argue with such fellows. The only practical thing is to

crown them."

[Illustration: The Two Bears]

The whole business vastly amused the old salt. He could see nothing but

foolishness in Whinney's maneuvers, "trying to git God-a'mighty on the

'phone," as he put it.

But the attempts whiled away many an idle moment, and day by day we

were passing landmarks which told me clearly that our goal was nearer.

The water became steadily colder, a fact which we verified by the usual

scientific method of dipping out pailfuls from time to time and taking

their temperature with a bath thermometer.

At the northern end of Kane Basin where Greenland makes out toward

Ellesmere and Grant Land we began to encounter ice. My readers can

perhaps imagine the thrill which was mine when I first heard the soft

scrape of frozen lips against the Kawa's silky skin!

Ice at last! Ice! the vaunted terror of the north! Leaning over the

garboard streak I watched anxiously to see how our gallant carrier

would take to the element for which she was designed. It was a magical

performance and a warm glow of satisfaction suffused my heart as I

noted how she slipped through the glazed surface. Far beyond in the

northern sky gleamed the "ice blink," that luminous brightness which

told of frozen fields and floes in the great beyond. We could feel the

chill of their vast bulk as we sat on deck of an evening.

We were now at the 82nd parallel and were passing through what is known

as mulch ice, which is of about the same consistency and saltiness

as ordinary brine. Wigmore made a number of interesting experiments

with a small freezer, using corn starch and condensed milk from his

own equipment and was able to produce a fair quality of ice cream

which had a slightly oily flavor doubtless due to the presence of

seals. From then on the ice developed into what is called squidge-ice,

thicker and more lumpy than mulch, but still navigable. This, however,

soon became a solid sheet, from four to ten inches in thickness, the

Kawa's progress became slower and with something like acute anxiety I

requested Whinney to switch on the thermal water line.

The effect surprised even Whinney whose inventive imagination had

proven itself capable of foreseeing almost anything which might happen

and many which might not. We were instantly surrounded by a dense fog

of our own making!

The ice edges of the squidge coming in contact with the candescent

copper vaporized immediately and the atmosphere on board became that

of a Turkish steam-room. As is often the case it was not so much the

heat as the humidity.[6] Our clothing was wringing wet and we were

perspiring at every pore. It was easy to see what the fatal result

would be when we shut off the electric spark and exposed our wide-open

pores to the icy breath of the north. Pneumonia and consumption, if not

worse, were almost certain.

Ordering all hands below for a rub-down we came to a standstill

and for two days did nothing more than maintain our position by

quarter-speed revolutions of the Tutbury. At the end of that time

Whinney emerged from the main hatch, where he had been incubating

his ideas, with a look of suppressed elation which told me that he

had found a solution of our difficulty. Without a word he set about

stringing wires from the storage batteries to two points on the forward

rail on a line with the capstan. In less time than it takes to tell it

he had lashed two electric fans to the projecting sides of the guide

runners and screwed the wires into the poles after which he walked aft

and came to attention.

"You may fire when ready, sir," he said, hand-at-visor.

I gave the signal and once more the throb of the engines shook our

jelly-like sides, once more we heard the hiss and crackle of the

squidge as it gave way before our burning zone but--a new sound! We

also heard the blended sonority of the two fans as they pushed a

powerful current of air along our water line. Dense and low, the fog

streamed past us like parted rivers of milk, to rise in soft clouds far

to the southward.

A spontaneous cheer burst from my anxious band and we gave Whinney

three times three with a right good will. At Triplett's suggestion--for

he was overjoyed at being able to see where he was going--I ordered

"half holiday" and issued five plugs of solid alcohol in honor of our

resumed motion. It was a happy evening we spent in the little cabin,

Triplett, Sausalito and I, while the others sat on deck in the pale

sunlight, crooning the old song which has been sung by polar explorers

since viking days, "Nordenskold! Nordenskold! Tilig am poel."[7]

Triplett's adjustable yard-arm which controlled our conviviality was

occasionally shifted to keep the low circling sun directly over it

and many a toast was eaten as the cheery plug passed round. My last

conscious memory after my fifth quid, was the sound of Frissell's

ukelele above my head and beside me the unabashed endearments of

Triplett talking to his "apple."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: Ekstrom illustrates the same point in his lectures by

using a cake (usually chocolate) in place of a pie. The objection to

this method is that the segmental walls have a tendency to crumble,

confusing the illusion of polar travel. Otherwise his system follows

mine.

W.E.T.]

[Footnote 6: In Taupol, the southernmost of the Maladive Islands, I

lived for three months in a similar climate without injurious results

but it must be borne in mind that I wore only a one-piece suit of

Khitra (gobang leaves). T.]

[Footnote 7: "Northland! Northland! I for you am." Undoubtedly

the fragment of an old Saga of Icelandic origin. A modern musical

derivative was once popular in American folk song with the refrain,

"Hip, Hooray, we're off for Baffin's Bay, etc." See W.J. Krehbiel's

"Gems of Greenland," pp. 94-96.]

Chapter IV

_We reach the polar cap. The strange incident of the missing Orders.

Who stole the papers? The Arctic summer. A sportsman's Paradise.

Notes from my journal. Whinney's sad experience._

Chapter IV

"Men, it is the Ice."

These words rang with a portentous solemnity as I delivered them to the

entire ship's company.

We had reached the solid floe. About us, white and interminable,

stretched the polar pack, with here and there inky streaks, the open

"leads" which often yawn between the very feet of unwary travellers.

But for us, the way lay straight. Glancing at the compass and adjusting

my gesture parallel to its needle, I pointed.

"Yonder lies the Pole!"

The seriousness of the moment imposed a silence broken only by the

screams of distant flocks of pemmican and the yooping of seals--for

we were in the land of prolific game. The second leg of our journey

was accomplished. The great test still remained, the long tug over the

rough floor to the Main Post itself.

"Men of the Traprock Expedition," I continued, "you have served

me long and faithfully. The reward of our efforts lies close at hand.

Yonder, I repeat, lies the Pole. Captain Triplett's last observation

shows that we are at 86° 13´ 6-7/8´´, fifteen miles better than all

previous records, Nansen's, Steffanson's and Peary's excepted. We

are running ahead of schedule time. From now on our progress will be

slower. But, though we will not be dragging light sledges over the ice,

remember that we carry our base of supplies with us. 'Tis an arduous

task, lads, but with fair weather and good luck we'll win through yet!"

THE NINE O'CLOCK BOTTLE

Here we have a typical scene in Camp Traprock during the late days

of the Arctic-Indian-Summer. Bartholomew Dane, the Egyptologist

and Sausalito are busily engaged nursing the expeditionary mascot,

Toktok, a tiny bear-cub which was adopted by Ikik after the demise

of its parent. The picture can give no idea of the painstaking care

which was lavished upon the little pet. As in the case of many

infants it was extremely difficult to find a food upon which he

would gain his orthodox ounce a day. Various forms of nourishment

were tried, the happy formula being finally found in a four-ounce

bottle administered every four hours, the meal consisting of modified

whale's-milk to which was added minute particles of "wheat-whiskers,"

a cereal-diluent to the perfection of which Dr. Traprock has devoted

many years of study.

Ikik, to whom credit must be given for the capture of the cub, was

hopelessly ignorant of how it should be cared for. Her idea was that

common to most primitive mothers, namely, that the infant should be

immediately put upon a meat or fat diet. The result of this treatment

was loss of weight and incessant crying on the part of Toktok.

Fortunately the ship's library contained a copy of Holt's "Care and

Feeding of Infants," a book which Dr. Traprock says he never feels

safe without.

Both Dane and Sausalito are wearing the summer costumes which are

practically a necessity during the heated term. Dane's tropic helmet

with its deeply overhanging cornice undoubtedly saved him from the

dreaded snow-blindness which so fatally attacked his companion

Whinney. The attractive dress worn by Sausalito is part of a wardrobe

assembled by her as she passed through Canada on her way to join

the expedition. The fur-edged chemisette and roll-down buskins are

similar to the parade uniform of the O'Howese Toboggan Club.

[Illustration: The Nine O'Clock Bottle]

The cheer which greeted this announcement surprised me by its

feebleness. I had felt that I was doing rather well. Plainly a number

of voices were silent. Puzzled and apprehensive I glanced toward my

men. Warburton Plock, oily and deferential, stood slightly in advance

of the others.

"Have you read your orders?" he asked.

"My orders?" I replied,--"my orders from whom?"

"Your sealed orders," he repeated, smiling craftily, "the ones Waxman

handed you when we left."

I did not like his tone. I detested the familiar way in which he spoke

of the aged president of the Explorers Union. His manner was that of

veiled bravado. The air was highly charged as before a coming storm.

"My brief-case ... cabin ... Swank.... Fetch."

I was excited and spoke monosyllabically, but Swank, like a faithful

dog, disappeared at the word "fetch" down the companion-way. In the

interval of his absence a thousand black thoughts whirled through my

brain. These mysterious orders, what were they? A plot ... something

was afoot, some deadly blow aimed to dash the cup of accomplishment

from my grasp as I raised it to my lips. To my credit I can say that,

even in this agonizing moment, I absolved Dr. Waxman of any share in

this dastardly work. I seemed to see his benevolent sheep-like face

smiling a good-bye, while before me, glowered Plock, palpably gloating

at my discomfiture. But orders were orders and duty was duty. Traprock

must be true! With a hand that trembled in spite of my best efforts, I

grasped the brief-case which Swank proffered and, turning it so that

all might see, I opened it.

It was empty!

I stood like a conjurer surprised by his own trick.

A threatening growl rose from the group huddled about Plock who now

came forward boldly, his face distorted with passion. The mask was off.

"This is buncomb, Traprock," he shouted. "You have done away with those

orders! Where are they? You know perfectly well that your instructions

are to...."

What he was about to divulge will never be known. Whipping up my left

arm I caught his heel with my right foot and the back of his head

struck the ice with a crack that roused the distant pemmican to renewed

screaming.[8]

"Stow that dunnage," I said quietly, and the limp carcass was tossed

aboard where it lolled grotesquely over the hatch-combing.

"To your places, you others...."

A slow, straining heave at the traces brought the Kawa up on her

guide-runners and she moved gracefully across the ice.

Pondering mournfully on the strange turn of events, wondering who could

have purloined the fateful packet, but taking care to show no exterior

sign of my perplexity, I trudged on, occasionally breaking the silence

with a single word of command.

"Mush."

* * * * *

Day succeeded day, days scarcely marked by any change, and yet there

was no sign of the missing document. The most rigid search was

fruitless and, gradually, the incident was forgotten.

So unbroken was the sunlight that it was only by exercising great care

in keeping our watches wound that we were able to know definitely just

what day it was. As time wore on, confusion arose. Miskin insisted

that it was Wednesday, Swank held out for Thursday and so on. But it

mattered little. They were all days of accomplishment and of glorious

Arctic summer, growing steadily hotter as we climbed up the glacial

coverlet. We were now beyond the latitude of my previous "farthest"

(87° 21' 22") which I had reached with the Royal Geographic Expedition

which met such a tragic fate on its return trip to England.[9]

The insect pests began to be very troublesome and I thanked the high

Gods for the green veils and mosquito-bars which made life tolerable.

A part of every man's equipment was an atomizer containing four fluid

ounces of oil-of-citronella, and a fly-swatter attached to his wrist by

a thong of reindeer sinew.[10]

I was amazed at the tropic temperature of these high latitudes. At noon

the thermometer frequently stood around 90° Fahr. in the shade and it

must be remembered that there _was_ no shade. Our thinnest garments

were none too comfortable nor were we able to say, as is usual, that

the nights were cool, for again it should be borne in mind that there

were no nights. Hour after hour the brazen disc of the sun circled

round the heavens, staring pitilessly at the moon which, strange

phenomenon! shone palely above the opposite horizon as if the two great

planets were balancing to partners in a stately astronomical dance.

At definite periods sleep was the order of the day, an enforced

regulation. During our waking hours we struggled on, at times wading

through mulch and squidge, at times sailing through seas of melted ice.

Yet, though the sun's rays were hot, there still remained the solid

pack below, too vast to be more than touched on the surface by this

fleeting summer.

Though we were surrounded by animal life it was much too warm for

hunting. In fact the very thought of such things as blubber and fur was

nauseating. Our civilized diet and clothing were better suited to our

stomachs both inside and out. But how quickly the warm polar weather

passed none knew better than I and from my place in the bow I urged my

men on until even Swank and Whinney cast reproachful glances at me over

their streaming shoulders.

"You aren't taking the Kawa to the Pole, she's taking you," they

complained.

"Mush," I replied.

A fact which was the cause of surprised comment by several members of

the expedition was that we had thus far encountered no Eskimos on our

journey. I confess that I myself was somewhat perplexed. In a country

in which game abounded it seemed strange to find no hunting parties. I

could account for this phenomenon by two courses of reasoning; either

the natives had gone south to escape the intolerable weather which we

were experiencing--for it will be remembered that these simple folk

have practically no way of combating heat--or their hunters might

possibly have fallen victims to the mistake so common to nimrods the

world over, of leading their bands into localities in which there was

no game whatever. Upon consideration the latter conclusion seemed the

more probable for it follows a great general law of humanity. Each

of my readers doubtless numbers among his acquaintance a sportsman

who makes an annual pilgrimage into inaccessible regions in search of

caribou, deer, salmon or big-horn and who invariably returns with a

tale of disappointment. "It has been a very poor year for caribou."

"There was too little water--or too much." These excuses are familiar

to any one who holds converse with the disciples of rifle and rod.

Our case was different. We were a scientific group, not occupied with

the capture of animal trophies and so we naturally saw a great deal of

game.

It is difficult for me to set down the amazing amount of interesting

live stock which flourished about us at every stage of our journey.

In the lower latitudes these were the more familiar caribou, rabbits,

wolves, and deer.

A sight I shall never forget was one which confronted us shortly after

clearing the westernmost point of Wrangel Island. This was in the

earlier stages of our journey while we still enjoyed a few hours of

restful darkness. Through the murky night I heard a low muttering sound

with an occasional note of complaint or discontent. The noise was not

single and distinct but vast and widespread as if a large area of land

had become vocal. "What do you suppose is wrong?" I asked Triplett with

whom I was keeping watch. "There's allus somethin' wrong on Wrangel,"

said that worthy imperturbably. But I could see that he was interested

for he kept his good-eye alternately on our compass and the dim bulk of

land that loomed on our quarter.

Dawn came on apace and a marvellous picture lay before us. Far into

the interior, on the snowy slopes, were millions of reindeer feeding

on the Christmas trees which do so well in this locality. The noise I

had heard was the swishing of great branches and the guttural grunts

of these picturesque mammals as they devoured their provender. Others

of my men had stolen on deck and stood silently watching. Frissell was

greatly excited.

"Who said there wasn't any Santa Claus!" he cried, and at the sound

of his voice the huge herd tossed its broad-leaved antlers and rushed

madly toward the distant horizon while Frizzie urged them on with cries

of "Now, Vixen, now, Dasher!" It was an odd but interesting scene.

The Arctic hares were not as numerous as I have seen them on my

previous northern trips and those I observed through my glasses were of

poor quality and sickly physique. Evidently the gradual dying out of

the lapland lark-spurs, which are the natural cover of the hares, has

worked havoc among these charming creatures.[11]

But now, beyond eighty-six, we had left behind us these semi-domestic

creatures and were among the truly Arctic animals, those weird denizens

of berg and floe which civilization sees only in zoological gardens or

vaudeville performances. From my station near the forepeak I swept the

horizon hourly with my glasses cataloguing the myriad species of Arctic

life and entering them in my journal with notes as to quantity,

quality and other attributes which had a bearing on the commercial or

scientific value of the type referred to. I can give no better idea

of this sportsman's paradise than by quoting a few extracts from the

volume.

INTENSIVE OPTIMISM

As long as brave deeds are recognized and heroic fortitude receives

its just due the name of Reginald Whinney will shine forth in

letters of gold. Reference is made in the text to his tragic attack

of snow-blindness on the very eve of the arrival of Dr. Traprock

(and party) at the Pole. This untoward visitation (by which we mean

Whinney's affliction, not the Traprock Expedition), would in itself

have been enough to break the heart of any ordinary man, but not the

heart of a Whinney. To such as he adversity is as the sunshine to

the flower or the flower to the bee, a new source of inspiration and

sweetness.

In the early days of his blindness he was, of course, greatly

depressed. "I am put out but not crushed" was his simple comment.

Having recourse to his typewriter he recorded that touching

paraphrase of Milton ending with the line, "They also serve who

only sit and type." Then came the magnificent "Ode to the Aurora,"

after which the sun of his vision seemed to burst through the walls

of his temporary night. Full of sparkling wit and joyous laughter

he fully earned his soubriquet of "Sunbeam-of-the-North." Even

before breakfast he was mirth personified; in the evening, he was

irrepressible. The Eskimos found in him a source of inexhaustible

wonder. To a race living far beyond the sound of a songbird his

carollings were nothing short of a miracle.

Dr. Traprock has confessed that at times his friend's gaiety was

trying. During the frightful sufferings of the return journey, for

instance, it was upsetting to face starvation and death to the

accompaniment of "I love a lassie," warbled by the stricken scientist

from the forepeak. But as the Doctor acutely remarks, "How unjust

to condemn a man who was doing the only thing left for him to do,

namely, trying to cheer us up. Moreover I knew that his optimism was

but blind. Incessant cheerfulness, when sincere, is impossible to

stand; I can enjoy it when I know that it masks a broken heart."

[Illustration: Intensive Optimism]

For instance, under date of June 18th, I find the following:

"June 18th. 86° 12' 5". Bright and fair. Going good. For two hours in

fore-noon passed three large seal schools, mainly phoca vitulina and

mitrata, probably about one thousand per school. Each group lay taking

its mid-day siesta near the open lead with sentinel seals carefully

posted at regular intervals. They maintained this position until we

were within approx. 100 yds. when they slid noiselessly into the sea

where I watched them at play for sometime, diving over and under each

other and emitting their throaty mating cry of 'Ook, ook.' Peron says

(See Mammi-feres, Livraison, Sept., 1819, p. 2) that the phoca vitulina

are monogamous but close observation of a large bull seal in the second

group convinces me that he is in error."

"June 20th. Slightly cooler, a blessed relief. More seals today

(Leopardina and Stemmatopus). Passed one group at feeding time and

watched them chase the smaller otaries into shallow ice pools where

possession of the fish was disputed by large flocks of pemmican. The

smaller fragments, otary-eyes, fins, etc., were in turn made-off with

by snow-buntings."

"June 21st. Climbed to main truck at noon and found three pemmican eggs

in crow's-nest. Must have been laid during rest period. Left them for

observation and posted order on main and jigger to leave nest strictly

alone. Whales spouting to leeward, evidently genus bone-head, in large

quantity. Memo. Report to United Corset Mfrs. and Umbrella Makers."[12]

"June 28th. Showers. Vast quantities of seals (Hirsutus) the true

fur-bearing or sack seal. Called the entire company before the mast and

warned them against shooting. Rough going today over raftered ice. Made

only six miles. Mother pemmican sitting on crow's-nest. Polar bears

becoming more numerous, also large numbers of white foxes. Disturbed

during rest period by snorting of walruses. Memo. Look up sealing-wax,

source of supply, market, etc. Another week should see us at the Pole!

Hold fast and strike hard."

The reader can imagine with what difficulty I restrained my companions

from wholesale slaughter of the thousands of friendly creatures among

whom we were making our slow but steady progress. We were individually

armed and equipped for any event which might befall us, but many

considerations urged me to be firm in this regard and my posted

notices, "No hunting or fishing under penalty of the law," were sternly

enforced. Primarily I wished to save time, knowing full well what delay

would be caused by the pursuit and what inconvenience by the capture

of any of the hulking carcasses which surrounded us. Secondly I was

anxious to conserve ammunition for a time when it might be needed. Our

own food supply was ample and it seemed wise to defer experiments with

eskimo diet until absolutely necessary.

How fortunate this caution proved will be related in its proper place.

That we should ever be thrown entirely upon our own resources naked and

stripped in this far land, seemed totally unlikely. But who knows the

design of an inscrutable providence! Not I, for one.

Two days from the Pole a tragic misfortune befell one of our little

group, none other than my faithful friend, Reginald Whinney.

He had come to me in the morning and asked for a two hours leave from

the traces to take up work which he said was more scientific, namely,

the study of the snow algæ which blossomed about us in rare profusion.

As it was my custom to let my men out of harness, two at a time, to

pursue their various specialties, I readily assented.

"Whinney, botanist and Dane, Egyptologist, on leave" was the order of

the day.

They departed in opposite directions. Scientists in general avoid each

other's company when making discoveries and these were no exception. It

was the last Whinney saw of us for many weeks.

At seven-and-a-half-bells Dane came aboard and went below to file his

data. Eight-bells sounded and still no Whinney. With my glasses I

scanned the expanse about us. Far away on our starboard bow I glimpsed

for an instant a moving black speck, lost it in the quivering lens,

found it again and held it. Was it a bear? No, it was too black. A

seal?--too tall!

In an instant I had given the order, "Cease mushing!"

"Swank, Wigmore, come with me. Triplett, you are in command."

We were off in a trice. As we drew near the distant figure I saw that

it was indeed Whinney. But what was he doing?

He was tottering about in vague circles like a man distraught. Just as

I came up to him he fell forward on his knees with a despairing cry,

covering his face with his hands. Gently holding him by the wrists, I

lifted him up; his arms dropped to his side and I knew the awful truth.

I mentioned, when Whinney left the ship, that he would see no more of

us for many weeks. It was true, for though we could see him, the poor

fellow could not see us.

"Blind! Blind!" he shrieked, sinking down in despair and beating his

head against the ice.

Again we raised him and, soothing him as best I could, I rubbed his

inflamed lids with a sharp piece of snow crust, a native cure in such

cases. But we were too late to effect a cure. Wearied by gazing at the

minute flower-forms of the algæ, dazzled by the glaring snow crystals,

my friend's eyes had fallen an easy prey to acute snow-blindness.

"Let this be a lesson to you, men," I said after we had led our patient

back to the ship. "If any man, in the future, leaves this deck without

his goggles, let him take the consequences. This expedition cannot be

allowed to develop into a game of blind man's buff."

Whinney sat whimpering on the port rail, a pathetic sight. Though I

spoke sternly I could but grieve in my heart for the tragic irony of

his fate.

Many brave adventurers have struggled and died in vain efforts to reach

the top of the world. To Reginald Whinney remains the sad distinction

of being the only man in the world who has been to the North Pole and

back without seeing it!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: The trick is one I learned from an old limehouse "pug"

whom I befriended in the east-end of London. He could only show me his

gratitude by teaching me the secrets of his trade, which have served me

on many an occasion.]

[Footnote 9: The entire party on H.M.S. Daffodil, were sunk by a German

submarine off St. Jean deLuz. I escaped, having disembarked at Brigus,

N.F., in order to join my regiment at Derby, Conn.]

[Footnote 10: The Arctic mosquito differs from his southern brothers,

the common _stegomia muflans_, in that he does not strike and get away.

Like the Canadian "wingle," where he bites he burrows, and that with

such rapidity that one must be swift of stroke indeed who would escape

his attack. Within a few seconds he disappears beneath the cuticle

and dire illness is the result. It is not commonly known but I am

convinced that the Arctic variety is the carrier of the scurvy germ,

that dreaded terror of travellers. (See Windenborg's treatise "Die

Arbeiten Stegomanische und Fleibeiten von dem Nord-deutsches Landes,"

which, while making many absurd claims as to German supremacy in polar

regions, contains at the same time much solid information). T.]

[Footnote 11: The ever-watchful Canadian game commission has taken

up this matter (which vitally affects the mitten industry) and is

conducting at the Govt. Laboratory in Ottawa a series of experiments

with various hare-restorers. W.E.T.]

[Footnote 12: Since his return to New York, Dr. Traprock has formulated

a bill to be introduced at the next session of Congress. The bill

is aimed directly at the Fordney tariff-schedule, which imposes the

highest duties on whale-bone since whales were first discovered. This,

according to Dr. Traprock, is accountable for the corsetless flapperism

of today. "The higher the whale-bone the lower the corset," is his

trenchant comment.--Ed.]

Chapter V

_The last ten miles. A mental observation. We lose our magnetic

bowsprit. The Big Peg at last! "The Lady, first!" We celebrate our

arrival. I glimpse a vision._

Chapter V

July fourth, 1921.

"Eighty-nine and two tenths!" said Capt. Triplett.

"Eighty-nine and two tenths," echoed Miskin, jotting down the figures.

Our navigator lowered the astrolabe through which he had been peering

and folded up his artificial horizon. He then figured for a few moments

on the edge of the taffrail, scrupulously erasing the calculation with

a combination of saliva and sleeve before he announced in his usual

formula:

"She proves. Key-rect as hell."

I piped down the engines and ordered the company abaft. We were working

through an open lead at the time.

The moment had come for another important announcement. These were of

almost daily occurrence at this time, each stage of our journey having

been marked by the establishment of a record for ship travel. It

had therefore become my custom to call the men together as soon as our

position had been officially announced, at which time we held a sort of

business "causerie," chatted over what had been accomplished, discussed

the future plans and policy of the expedition and so on, much as is

done today in business organizations whose lack of business gives them

ample time for such recreations.

THE AVOWAL

It was not to be expected that the temperamental Swank would long

remain proof against the attractions of the beguiling Klinka maidens

and here we have evidence of him running true to form, the form in

this case being that of Klipitok, the youngest of the Mrs. Makuiks.

The scene is the sub-polar apartment of the Kryptok hunter, hewn from

the ageless ice.

Obviously a tender passage is in progress. The jaunty Swank, holding

in his hand a bunch of lapland-larkspurs, which, it should be

remarked, were completely out of season at the time, is not only

saying it with flowers but with all the practised ardor of a grade A

Romeo.

"You are the sweetest thing in the world," he whispers. "I have never

met anyone like you in all my life."

The child hears and believes.

"You are so original!" she murmurs, bending her seal-like ear.

"And you so aboriginal!"

"More!" she sighs passionately.

"Have you ever been to Niagara Falls?"

At this point, due to the rising temperature, great drops of water

began to fall from the ice-roof and a harsh command from Makuik drove

the lovers into the open air.

In justice to Mr. Swank it should be stated that all wife-wooing

was conducted with the full knowledge and consent of the husband.

Makuik's ulterior motive, doubtless, was to secure additional hunters

for his tribe. Alas, for Swank's romantically planned honeymoon, it

was doomed to end as so many do, in disappointment.

[Illustration: The Avowal]

Today, more than ever, I felt the responsibility of my position. Having

gained in assurance and poise by reason of experience at previous

meetings, my words were terse and well-chosen.

"Men," I said, "and lady" (bowing to Sausalito, who waved a tennis

shoe at me), "the end is well nigh come. The goal for which we have

labored is almost in sight. The Pole, reputed inaccessible, is at hand.

No longer the interminable leagues intervene. No longer do the long

miles stretch between us and our object. We have annihilated space--and

time!" (Cries of "Hear, Hear!")

"Men of the Traprock Expedition, tried, true and trusty Traprockians,

we have almost completed our journey, we are nearly there, the

long-sought----"

A tremendous cheer interrupted me. My companions were unable to control

themselves, and my oratorical intuition told me that it was the moment

to stop.

With a sweeping gesture toward the North, I shouted the magic

monosyllable "Mush!" and sat down.

In polar travel the last ten miles are invariably the hardest. One

is spent and exhausted. Ice conditions north of eighty-seven are

increasingly difficult. Absolutely nothing has been done by either

Canadian or United States Governments toward keeping the national

highways in condition. Raftered floes, composed of sheets of

twenty-foot ice, piled up like badly shuffled playing cards, often

directly oppose one's progress.[13]

But all things yield to an iron will. We had not come thus far to be

thwarted and our nearness to success roused me to feverish energy. As I

look back on that last day I am amazed at some of the things we did.

It has never been my habit to dodge a difficulty and true to this

principle we made straight at every barrier. There was no dodging or

deviating. Some we climbed, some we tunneled (the Kawa's masts folded

back along her deck), some we blew up, though I hesitated to resort to

this process for the practical reason of wishing to save my ice bombs,

and the more sentimental dislike of breaking the mystic silence of the

North with a sound so extraneous and artificial as that of blasting.

The northern silence has always seemed so pure and chaste that the

thought of shattering it was extremely repugnant. It was like violating

a virgin. It was, however, necessary to do this at times.[14]

Toiling, sweating, cursing, singing and shouting with excitement, we

fought our way foot by foot, mile by mile, over the rough ice-cap.

It was marvellous to see how the Kawa behaved, how magnificently

her pliant flanks adapted themselves to the jagged contours, how

intelligently and naturally she oozed over and between difficulties,

pressed in here, bulging out there, svelte, seal-like and delicious.

My office was that of general exhorter and encourager. It would never

have done for me to take the lines and do any actual pulling; the

men would have lost respect for me at once. But I was never idle for

a moment. Armed with an old riding crop, a relic of my days as M.F.H.

of the Derby Hounds, I circled about my straining comrades, shouting

encouragement and occasionally flicking them smartly on back and

buttock. They responded valiantly, though not a few black looks were

thrown at me.

At the top of every ice hurdle we stopped to rest and I issued extra

rations of alcohol plug. It was little enough to repay these gallant

chaps for their exertions and surely this was no time to play the

niggard with the "A-P" as we called it. Once refreshed, and the ice

slide ready, we coasted down the northward incline and spun merrily

across the level floe.

Late in the day, I called a halt. My comrades, somewhat exhausted

by their exertions and a little affected, perhaps, by my generous

distributions of A-P, sank on the ice near their traces or crawled up

on the Kawa's soft counter and fell asleep.

I was glad of their unconsciousness for I was very much excited. We

must be nearly there!

Before us rose a gentle snow eminence, the merest swelling in the white

plain, such as would be called a mountain in the middle west.[15]

Beyond this, unless I was mistaken, lay the Pole.

"Triplett," I said excitedly, "can you make a quick observation?"

"Sure," he observed. One glance at the low hanging sun was enough

for my old navigator. Rolling back his eyes he looked for a moment

into that reliable brain of his. I saw that he was taking a mental

observation! Marvellous man! In breathless silence, I waited.

"Eighty-nine and--nine tenths," he whispered. Sweat stood out on his

forehead and rolled in little rivers through his corrugations. This

sort of thing was plainly exhausting.

Quickly handing him an emergency plug I rose.

At that moment Warburton Plock came toward me. Though I disliked

him more than ever, he had been deferential and polite since I had

faced him down in his silly fuss over my orders, so that I listened

attentively while he spoke.

"Doctor, with your permission I'm going to unship the magnetic bowsprit

and set it here as a beacon. We must be way above the Magnetic North

by now and it is pulling us backward instead of forward."

"Very good," I answered. "Your idea has merit."

He touched his cap pleasantly and went forward. I liked the idea of

leaving a beacon or cairn. It is the proper thing among explorers. Here

and there we had run across them, an occasional pile of snow, topped

by a gin bottle enclosing a message from some previous expedition,

empty containers of various sorts whose labels were mute memorials

to the achievement of the great white race! Walker, Haig and Booth,

imperishable names these, with a solemn splendor when found on the

white register of the North.

I watched the work with interest. Plock and Miskin were busy at the

bow-chains, Swank, Wigmore and Frissell prepared the site, hewing

out rude blocks with their ice picks, while Sausalito cackled

encouragement. She was knitting a slip-on of reindeer yarn.

Suddenly a shout of dismay rose from under our forefoot. I saw Plock

and Miskin struggling with the bowsprit. Evidently they had completely

miscalculated the strength of the magnetic pull.

"Help!" cried Plock.

I sprang forward, even as the others threw down their picks and dashed

toward the bow.

We were too late.

Jammed against the side of the ship, his hands torn and bleeding Miskin

was forced to relinquish his grasp. With but the weight of Plock at its

butt end the long pole shot off at an angle across the ice.

"Leave it go!" I ordered.

But Plock was too dazed, too enraged to hear me. Fortunately at a

distance of two hundred yards his head struck a ridge of ice and he

keeled over.

Free of all hindrance, the steel stick bounded off with amazing

rapidity, leaving a faint trail, straight and true to the Magnetic

North. I watched it through my glasses until it disappeared over the

horizon to the southwest,--and there it is today, for all to see who

visit those strange regions, a record of the Traprock Expedition placed

there by a power more mysterious and greater than that of human hands.

Plock was gathered up and the company once more assembled.

This time I wasted no words. "Men, we are there. Beyond yonder eminence

is the Pole. Ten minutes, twenty at most, and then--rest!"

ABOUT TO BE CAPTURED

This picture represents what is probably the high-spot in Dr.

Traprock's absorbing narrative, namely, the moment just before the

author and his friend Swank burst from their hiding-places and

captured Ikik, the Klinka maid, who is seen crouching over the

bait which in this case was the scarlet hunting-coat worn by Dr.

Traprock during many an exciting chase, though none, we venture

to say, compared to this. Critics of this picture have said that

the coat seemed unnecessarily voluminous. In explanation it may

interest our readers to know that at meetings of the Derby Hounds,

which organization takes its origin from the ancient Epsom Hunts of

England, the M.F.H. wears the medieval hunting costume, the folds

of which cover the rider, horse and at times several of the hounds

as well. The thought of our intrepid friend Traprock thus clad in

full cry suggests an inspiring sight. He says himself with his usual

modesty, "The coat has always attracted women, but I have usually

been in it."

Better than words our illustration, snapped by Swank through the eye

of "Dr. Pease," gives an idea of the simple beauty of the Klinka

summer-furs. Though she has thrown aside her oomiak she is plainly

apprehensive. Something is in the air, she knows not what.

It was Dr. Traprock's intention to capture the maid as politely as

was consistent with success. After the diving-tackle which he has

described he had expected to deliver a conciliatory speech beginning,

"Madame, I assure you my intentions are perfectly honorable."

Makuik's arrival interrupted this program but we feel that in

justice to Dr. Traprock his plan should be known lest some of our

readers assume that he was unnecessarily rough. In the old Norman,

"Chroniques de la Noblisse," we find significant note referring to

Jean Marie Piegeroche, an early ancestor of the author. Says the

historian, "_Fort comme la mort, beau comme le soleil, et toujour

rosse mais pas trop rosse._" "Strong as death! Beautiful as the sun,

rough ... but not too rough." It is indeed the Doctor.

[Illustration: About to be Captured]

With hearty good will they sprang to their positions and we shot

forward up the gentle grade.

Exactly twelve minutes later we reached the crest and below us,

sparkling in the sunlight, stood the Pole itself.

* * * * *

How can I possibly describe the scene and the sensations of that

inspiring moment? Physically the outlook was perhaps unimportant save

for a feature that set my blood tingling while it stilled my heart in

reverence. This feature was Peary's cairn!

It was untouched, unchanged.

From the moment the object of the Traprock Expedition was announced

I had been haunted by a vague fear that some other group would head

straight for my goal, dragging with them some hapenny-tuppenny ships

model wherewith to wither my laurels.

It was not so.

Before us, a few hundred yards distant in the center of a shallow bowl

stood the rude monument of the great Commander, just as he had left

it. From the summit and flanks of the miniature mountain fluttered the

tattered ensigns he had placed there, our country's flag, the red

cross, the D.K.E. banner and the others.

The Stars and Stripes were nailed to a stout spar, evidently an extra

yard-arm or spare jigger from the Roosevelt. This mast still stood, a

graphic symbol of the Pole itself, as if the giant axis of the earth

projected beyond its surface. It was slightly out of plumb and the wood

toward the base was somewhat abraded.

But of the vandalism of late visitants there was not a trace. No picnic

baskets or discarded lily-cups marred the snowy surroundings. No other

ship, great or small, had made fast to Mother Earth's last mooring.

We rushed toward the spot in helter skelter fashion, but ten yards from

the cairn a thought, almost morbid in its chivalrousness, seized me.

I must stop this mad rush.

How?

Whipping out my Colt I fired three shots in quick succession. It was

the return-to-the-ship signal. The crowd hesitated, irresolute.

On the instant I dashed ahead and faced about.

"Gentlemen," I cried, "though thousands of miles from home, remember,

you _are_ gentlemen. The lady, first!"

Offering Sausalito my arm we climbed the slope together.

The others arrived en masse. Swank, Plock, Sloff, they were all like

children playing a game of prisoner's base, with the Pole as home. Poor

Whinney was "it."

In the excitement of the moment I had forgotten him. He was a pitiful

spectacle as he came tap-tapping his way across the ice, feeling each

step with his cane. We watched him in silence until I saw that he was

going to miss the Pole entirely and if not stopped would soon be bound

south again for an indefinite period. Tenderly Sausalito and I led him

to the cairn while her rich voice murmured comfort in his ear. He was

beside himself with emotion and hot tears kept welling from under his

goggles.

"The touch of a woman's hand!" he sobbed, as he smoothed mine with his.

Frissell's arrival was characteristic. He made the last sixty yards

between the Kawa and the Pole on a pogo stick--a new--in fact the

only--record for an event of this kind.

Second only to ourselves was the Kawa and willing hands soon hauled her

across the intervening distance and made her fast.

The great objective of my polar push had been gained and with a

reverent heart I called the men together for short but appropriate

ceremonies.

After a prayer of thanksgiving by Miskin, we sang as much of the Star

Spangled Banner as we could remember and ate a silent toast to the

memory of great explorers who had come and gone. I then made a few

appropriate remarks, outlining the progress of polar travel from Norse

days down to the present and we then proceeded to the picturesque

"planting of the flags." It was a charming picture in the amber

sunlight, not unlike the final chorus of some great operatic spectacle

in which the nations of the earth are gathered together.

Forming in a circle we marched slowly about the cairn singing the

ancient song: "Nordenskold--Nordenskold--helvig am trein," each man

planting his flag at the close of a verse, in the order named:

Traprock, U.S.A., Swank, Sons of American Revolution; Whinney, Guidon

of the Derby Fencibles (sometimes called the "Desperate Derbies");

Sausalito, Lucy Stone League; Frissell, Dutch Treat Club of New York;

Plock, Explorers Union; Miskin, National Geographic Society; Triplett,

New Bedford Chamber of Commerce; Sloff, Ass. Astronomers of America;

Wigmore, Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities;

Dane, Egypt.

With the cairn thus gaily decorated and the Kawa's full alphabet of

signal flags flying fore and aft spelling the word "Victory," the

formal ceremonies were over and I gave the order for complete rest,

relaxation and enjoyment.

How thoroughly these instructions were carried out may well be

imagined. Three days' rations of every sort were dragged from the

hold and spread about us. Without further urging all hands fell to.

Every man had five A-P's and a bountiful supply of potted ham, herring

and salt codfish.[16] This somewhat arid diet was washed down with

copious draughts of melted snow thickened with A-P, and the celebration

soon attained a terrific muzzle velocity. Songs echoed across the

surrounding plain, merry tales were passed about, tales which brought

a dull glow to Sausalito's cheeks and caused old Triplett to slap his

thigh with delight.

Frissell was a host in himself. He performed tricks of magic,

imitations and feats of acrobatics and ventriloquism, appearing

successively in various costumes from his inexhaustible supply. The

quiet Miskin disclosed an unsuspected social gift and lured us into

guessing games.

"What is the distance from Bremen to Hong Kong?"

We were staggered. Miskin, from the store of his librarian experience,

knew the answer. It was dull, but helped to keep the others sober for a

few extra hours.

The three days' rations lasted, I think, about one full 24-hour day.

A single unpleasant incident marred the close of the entertainment.

Plock, who was enormously exhilarated, crawled toward me and pointed

toward the D.K.E. flag above us.

"D.K.E. song," he said thickly.

I eyed him coldly.

"I can only sing it with a Brother."

To my disgust he stretched out a very dirty hand, and gave me the grip!

"Mew Chapter," he murmured.

It was revolting. That it should be Plock of all others!

We did the "Band of Brothers" together--my oath compelled it--but I

have never voiced its loving sentiments so half-heartedly.

Quiet fell at last. So did most of my companions. One by one they

toppled over. Whinney was the last to go. It is said that the loss

of one function strengthens another and I suppose that the absence

of eyesight gave him staying power. But he finally succumbed,

smiling happily and crooning to himself--"I don't no' whish is, m' I

blin'-drunk or drunk-blin'"; and he was gone.

My last memory is of Frissell saying "my next imitation" and then

playing "taps" on a mouth organ. I knew the impossibility of competing

with a parlor entertainer. Nothing will quiet such chaps but a dead

audience. So I rolled over, and slept the sleep of a tired but happy

explorer.

* * * * *

What awakened me I cannot say, but I am sure that it was something

unusual, for my awakening was not gradual or difficult. It was the same

quick instant leap to consciousness as that which rouses the suburban

wife when she leans across the interim between the twin beds and

whispers tensely to her husband, "Horace, someone is trying to get into

the dining-room window!"

SOMETHING NEW IN DRAMATICS

A happy thought in the formation of the personnel of the Expedition

was the inclusion of Frissell, the professional entertainer, who is

here shown playing a leading part in the amateur theatricals which

it was his delight to organize. The scene chosen for illustration is

the famous shipping episode from "The Taming of the Shrew." Reginald

Swank, who is no mean dramatic critic, tells us that Frissell's

"Petruchio" was a spirited performance, while Snak's "Katharine"

rivalled Ada Rehan at her best. The nautical background added a novel

touch to the somewhat hackneyed vehicle and it is safe to say that

Shakespeare is permanently established among the Klinka and Kryptok

tribes.

Not content with the success of this production, Frissell plans to

bring to Broadway a newly organized company, "The Polar Players."

They will appear in repertoire while the B and C companies tour

the provinces. The Winter Garden has already been engaged for the

venture, Al Jolson obligingly shifting to the Metropolitan Opera

House. Tickets for the première of this interesting novelty, which is

set for November 1st, may be had by application to any of the well

known speculators. Mr. Frissell has already shown photographs of some

of his best scenes to prominent professional critics. A few sample

opinions may be of interest.

George Jean Nathan: "Foreign and therefore good."

Heywood Broun: "Lacking in background; we like it."

Al Woods: "Niftik."

Dorothy Parker: "I hate actors, but these people are different."

Frederick O'Brien: "Taupo aloha che."

The Literary Digest: "Better than the average and more average than

the best."

David Belasco: "All to the spot-light."

Bernard Shaw: "They go further back than Methusaleh."

[Illustration: Something New in Dramatics]

I suddenly found myself sitting bolt upright, straining my ears through

the lightness.

What was it?

What uncanny influence had snatched me bodily out of the depths of

stupor?

All about me lay my companions. I counted them dazedly. Triplett,

Sausalito, Swank,--yes, they were all there, not one missing.

"It was nothing" I thought, and stretched myself, preparatory to

replacing my aching head in its original position.

And then my hair literally rose on that same head and a creeping chill

crept up my spine.

Close at hand, just back of me, rose a soft, exquisite, purling sound,

the sound of a woman's laughter! Whirling about I caught a fleeting

glimpse of her.

It was just a flash. She was peering over the edge of the cairn. The

instant my eyes met hers I knew that I had seen the most beautiful

woman in the world!

Leaping silently to my feet, for I did not wish to waken my comrades,

I raced toward the cairn. As I rounded the curve I heard again that

silvery laughter, spiced, I thought, with a note of mockery.

"One second, my beauty!" I muttered, "and I shall have you!" Remember,

I had been for months in the solitudes. My blood pounded in my temples.

Sweeping gracefully around the cairn I arrived on the opposite side.

Desolate and empty, the ice bowl curved to its rim.

Not a living soul in sight.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: The only highway comparable to the above, in my

experience, is the main street of Portchester, N.Y., which has been

torn up since the memory of man. Some of the rocks in the middle of

this thoroughfare are of volcanic origin. The detours are even worse.]

[Footnote 14: The explosive used is a development of Whinney's along

suggestions made by me. I am not at liberty to give the chemical

formula, but its lines of force are bi-lateral instead of perpendicular

as is the case with lyddite and the other nitroglycerine derivatives.

To any one especially interested in ice blasting I shall be pleased to

furnish additional information. W.E.T.]

[Footnote 15: The lowest mountain in the world is Mt. Clemens, Mich.,

which has an altitude of 6 ft. above lake level. I once climbed it on

crutches. W.E.T.]

[Footnote 16: These compact and easily carried food stuffs formed a

large part of our store. With the addition of a little water they

increase greatly in bulk and nutritive value. The idea came to me when

stranded for two weeks in the Dry Tortugas, during which time I lived

entirely on an old carriage sponge which I found on the beach. W.E.T.]

Chapter VI

_Fatal procrastination. Our one-dimensional position. An

extraordinary ornithological display. I confide in Swank. His plan. I

capture my vision. The Klinkas. An embarrassing incident._