Chapter VI

The succeeding days were occupied with the business of getting settled.

Our eight-day clock recorded July 7th before we finally got down to

work. By throwing up a waist-high wall around the base of the cairn we

formed a circular dugout into which we moved our belongings, a man to

each segment. Already the weather had begun to moderate and I found my

medium-longs comfortable.

Sections of our camp were covered with tarpaulins and of course we had

the Kawa to retire to in case of need. A passing shower warned me that

the short Arctic summer was waning but I figured that we had ample time

to remain at least three weeks longer. We had but begun our scientific

work, our food supply was generously sufficient, and moreover, my men

had come a long way and were entitled to a rest.

Ah! How vainly does the mind of man delude itself with false reasoning.

Back in my brain nibbled the maggot of curiosity. Deep in my man-being

the age-old impulse lusted for a sight of the mysterious ice-maiden.

Like the old viking in the Saga--"_Moe entilgig sas, moe Tillig as

var--_"[17] I would have procrastinated forever. As it was my delay ...

but I am now getting south of myself.

Speaking of "getting south" we were in a curious position, one

previously remarked on, but which has received scant attention. I refer

to the fact that there was left to us but one direction. We had nowhere

to go but south. The idea seemed so fantastic that I verified it by

actual test. The empiric is after all the only actual, as Spencer says.

Standing close together four of us were able to touch the Pole with our

backs. At a signal we all stepped forward five paces.

We had all gone south!

And yet, Triplett and I had gone in exactly opposite directions: so had

Whinney and Wigmore who were assistants.

There are some things that are beyond the mind of man. Whinney said

that it was very simple. He explained that since it was already

possible, in a three dimensional world, to reduce motion to one

direction (which is the equivalent of one dimension) he was sure that

further research would show us the way to arrive at a point in which

there would be no direction at all.

"How would you get back?" I asked.

Although nonplussed he started in on a wordy explanation in the midst

of which I sneaked softly away, leaving him still talking under the

impression that I was at his side.

My unfortunate friend had taken up writing to mitigate his black

loneliness and the click of his typewriter could be heard at any time.

He was writing a description of our voyage and it surprised me to see

how much clearer and more interesting his account became after his eyes

were stricken and he was obliged to rely for information on what was

told him rather than on what he had seen. It has long been a theory of

mine that too much actual experience makes a man inarticulate, while

the reverse is stimulating and beneficial.[18] A realization of the

devastating dullness of most polar accounts has further confirmed this

view.

In the meantime our serious work was progressing. My plan was to

keep one of the men with me, giving the others freedom to pursue their

respective lines of research. This made it possible for me to be at

home most of the time and so not miss any recurrence of the feminine

phenomenon I had noted.

AFTER THE BATH

No libel has received wider acceptance than the often made statement

that the Eskimos are an uncleanly people. It is true that during

the winter season the skin is protected by frequent applications of

various animal-oils such as seal, walrus, otary, sperm and pemmican.

Only thus could the skin be protected against the rigors of the Polar

winter. The usual specification employed by the Klinka tribe is as

follows: (1) One (1) coat of otary oil thoroughly brushed in. When

this has dried apply (2) one (1) coat of Makuik-mixture (1/3 otary to

2/3 whale, sperm or equal), applied hot with a soft tundra sponge or

seal-flipper; (3) two (2) coats grade A pemmican, applied separately;

(4) finish coat of walrus-oil rubbed to a high polish. Fastidious

individuals frequently add a coat of guppy-wax which results in a

soft lustrous surface. By this method the entire body is hermetically

sealed (just as our New England forebears used to seal their

preserves and jams with paraffin) and the skin is kept immaculately

clean.

As soon, however, as the Spring sun has ameliorated the low

temperature the native feels that it is time to slough his oily

protection. Nature demands that his pores come up for air. This is

accomplished by exposure to the sun's rays. The wax and substrata

rapidly liquefy and are easily scraped-off with curved bone knives

admirably adapted to the work in hand. The natives assist each other.

One of the pleasantest experiences of Dr. Traprock and his men was

that of watching a lovely Klinka scraping an acquaintance, aided by

the friendly suggestions of her companions.

When the final oil-coat is removed and all pores are wide open the

body is rolled in clean snow and rubbed vigorously with a dried

salmon-fin.

The adjacent photograph shows little Kopek returning in his mother's

oomiak after his Spring scouring. The snowy whiteness of his tender

skin is ample proof of the hygienic wisdom of the Klinka method.

Note the iglootinous character of the background. The perforated

mounds are really hives, the winter quarters of the Poks or Arctic

snow-bees which lay blue honey in large quantities from June to

September.

[Illustration: After the Bath]

After a comfortable breakfast my followers departed in various

directions, each carrying his luncheon which Sausalito put up for him.

She, by the way, had become the uncrowned queen of all hearts and I

felt more than justified in having acceded to Triplett's sinful wishes.

Plock found it difficult to make any headway with his anthropology

because he could discover no inhabitants. Up to July 20th, he kept

entering regularly in his journal: "Density of population 1/316 to

square mile."

"It hardly seems enough," said Frissell brightly.

Plock gave him a sour look.

"I was not speaking of mental density," he said.

In zoology he was more successful, though he complained bitterly that

my "no hunting" edict cramped his style.

"You can't study life without taking it," he said.

I thought he was referring to the magazine.

"My family have been taking it since Vol. 1, No. 1," I retorted, "and

you know perfectly well it has always been anti-vivisection."

"Who said anything about vivisection?" he demanded, "though for that

matter, that's just one of Life's kinks, something that was wished on

'em in a will. Let me kill a few animals first, and I'll cut 'em up,

and maybe eat 'em afterward!"

He licked his lips greedily. In him, too, dormant appetites were

stirring, the blood thirst of the tiger! Strange irony, that he should

be the first to go.

Nevertheless he brought in some interesting live specimens caught

with ingenious snares and traps, among other things numerous birds,

ptarmigan, pelican and pemmican and a pair of polar kittens, the young

of the Felis-polaris, those quaint cats which always point toward the

north.[19] These charming creatures soon became our pets and took

avidly to the condensed milk which Sausalito prepared for them.

The pair of nesting pemmican who had pre-empted our crow's nest were a

source of constant interest. Three magnificent eggs about the size of

footballs were jealously watched day and night. Plock informed us that

the young birds might hatch any day now and warned us to be ready for

interesting developments. Though I believed him I was unprepared for

anything as novel as what took place.

Fortunately the event transpired on a Sunday--July 23rd to be

exact--which was a day of rest. We had just finished divine service

when Plock pointed excitedly toward the main truck.

"She's going to hatch!" he yelled.

The mother bird had risen from the nest. Between her powerful legs she

clutched one of the perfect ovates. Circling the Kawa three times she

uttered a piercing shriek and dropped the egg.

"Key-ryste!" ejaculated Triplett.

Plock motioned for silence.

The egg struck the floe with a deep boom off our weather lee and a

dense cloud of bright orange smoke filled the air in the midst of

which we saw the fledgling pemmican in full flight, rising to join its

mother. The male or bull pemmican now added himself to the party and

together they made off to the edge of the ice bowl where the young one

alighted.

"Stand back," warned Plock. "Cover up your noses."

The saffron laying fumes were drifting toward us, and their odor was

overpowering and indescribable. Even as I crouched behind our bulwarks

I thought of my old friend Lucien Sentent, the nasal gourmet of

Battambang and wished he were with us. He could have had my share!

Three times this curious phenomenon was repeated and though vastly

diverted we were glad when it was over.

Along other lines, Miskin covered a large number of cardboards with

maps. He was preparing a folio, "The Pole and its Environs," he called

it. A difficulty was that of locating any other point in relation to

the Pole. Triplett's science could go no further than it had.

"Son," he said to Miskin, who had been anxiously asking which direction

New York was. "Son, I kin tell yer where we be, but not where we ain't."

So Miskin tried the effect of the Pole in various positions on the

sheets and said he would fill in the details later.

Swank got some excellent photographs using Whinney's camera, some of

which are reproduced with this book. The views from the Pole itself

were particularly interesting, but his best results were to come later.

Wigmore kept adding to his collection of snow crystals and algæ which

he packed carefully in cracked ice, while Whinney, even in his darkened

condition found it possible to tinker with his radio outfit. Sloff

helped him rig his antennae to the Pole itself and we began to get

messages with increasing clarity.

Thus it will be seen that all our little band were busy and that not an

hour was wasted.

But deep in my heart lurked a determination to see again my lady of

mystery. As the days lengthened to weeks without my having made any

progress I at last confided in Swank.

He was incredulous but logical and infinitely woman-wise.

"You were cuckoo," he said. "But if you weren't, the only way to get

her is to rouse her curiosity. Then grab her."

"How?" I asked.

He pondered a moment before replying.

"See those snow men?"

I nodded. Frissell had occupied his valuable time carving effigies for

what he called his "Hall of Ill-fame, or Northern Musee of the World's

Worst Worms."--Volstead, Anderson, Dr. Pease, John Roach Straton,

Anthony Comstock and others. While I deprecated his taste I had no

suspicion how thankful I should be for its results.

"Here's the idea," Swank continued. "Get everybody else out of the way

for a whole day, see? Then plant a decoy over on the other side of the

cairn where you saw the woman; something bright and snappy in color."

"My old hunting coat!" I suggested.

"Just the thing. Then you and I creep into a couple of Frizzie's

masterpieces, poke out their prune-stone eyes and watch."

"Swank!" I cried, grasping his hand, "you are a genius."

He shrugged his shoulders modestly.

"In more ways than one," he conceded.

The plan was simple of execution. My only problem was Whinney,

Sausalito and Triplett who commonly stuck around home. This I solved

by sending Sausalito off for a day's picnic with Whinney so that the

Captain followed, as a matter of course. Since Reginald had been unable

to see Sausalito and only heard her vibrant voice, he had become

dangerously fond of her, a fact which Triplett's one eye was quick to

notice. They, therefore, departed, Sausalito leading Whinney with

Triplett trailing. The others had gone long ago. Swank and I at once

began our preparations.

Twenty feet from the foot of the cairn I spread my M.F.H. coat on the

snow. Its vivid scarlet with the Derby brown collar and turn-back cuffs

made a vivid spot amid the surrounding whiteness. Swank meanwhile was

burrowing into the back of Dr. Pease. A moment later I was enclosed in

Volstead, a disguise which I had never thought to assume. The air was

suffocating inside and to fortify myself I nibbled a fragment of A-P

with ironic appreciation of the contrast between the outer man and the

inner. Swank, not to be outdone, solaced himself with a smoke which

must surely have irked the cold semblance of the arch anti-cigarettist.

But I hissed a warning and the blue smoke spiral ceased.

From then on we waited. The time was interminable. It was probably not

more than thirty minutes, but it seemed hours. My A-P was exhausted and

I began to think of quitting.

Then, with a suddenness that nearly caused me to fall through

Volstead's abdomen, things began to happen. I glanced at Dr. Pease; he

was trembling slightly, or maybe it was my own excitement.

DINNER IS SERVED

The closeness of primitive man to the abysmal brute is strikingly

illustrated in the accompanying photograph. Makuik at mealtime must

surely remind the reader of the Bronx Park Zoo at that time which the

poet beautifully describes:

"Between the dark and the daylight,

When the lions release their lung-power,

Comes a pause in the day's occupation

Which is known as the feeding-hour."

Eskimo diet varies with the season. During the long winter it

consists mainly of the fatty overcoats worn by seal, walrus and

otary. Another favorite _plate_ is made, en casserole, with alternate

layers of whale-blubber and seal-flippers. The result tastes very

much like stewed tennis-shoes. These wobbly dishes, garnished with

seal-eyes, are served on squares of hide and are scraped-up with

flippers or guppy-fins. Both hide and flipper are eaten at the close

of the meal which eliminates the tedious dish-washing, wiping and

putting-away of so-called civilized housekeeping. These blubberous

foods supply the calories (about 2000 to the square inch) necessary

to combat the absurd temperature of the winter season.

When the sun re-appears in the spring and the song of the first

lapwing is heard, the Eskimo begins to think intently of raw meat.

"_Ukuk matok tomatok_," he mutters to himself. "I must have some

vitamines."

The scent of a bear two miles to windward crazes the native huntsman

and speedily sets him to sharpening his spears and knives to

razor-keenness. Yet so strict is his observance of Kryptok law that

when a kill has been made he will touch no morsel until the meat has

been divided according to the custom, for the chief the sirloins and

porterhouses, for the lesser men the second and third joints and for

the women the ribs, rump, neck and feet or whatever else is left.

According to Makuik bear's-meat is greatly prized because of its

toughness. It is considered effeminate to eat tender meat. The sound

of an Eskimo meal is not unlike a Red-Cross bandage-tearing session.

A study of the photograph under the microscope clearly shows the

vitamines winding their curiously spiral course up and down the meal.

The absence of table manners is not remarkable when one considers the

absence of tables.

[Illustration: Dinner is Served]

Swiftly and noiselessly a large block of snow at the base of the cairn

itself moved to one side disclosing a laughing face, the same lovely

countenance upon which I had gazed several weeks before. The wearer

listened for a full minute with bird-like intentness, then leaped

lightly out and straightened up, a long-limbed, graceful creature

wearing the conventional summer furs of the Northern Eskimo. Her hood

was thrown back showing a glimpse of entrancing shoulder but what

dazzled me most were the starry blue eyes, fair skin and wealth of

molten, golden hair!

Her first act was to circumnavigate the cairn which she did with the

same silent rapidity that marked her every motion. She then made

directly for the lure, bending over it, touching it cautiously and

finally raising it and burying her face in its scarlet folds, while her

laughs rang out muffled but intoxicating.

This was my chance!

Bursting through my prison walls I rushed toward her while Swank, by

arrangement, crashed out of Pease, darted to the entrance, slid the

block into place and sat on it. I was upon her before she had a chance

to move.

"_Akalok!_" I cried (the Northern dialect for "friend"), as we rolled

over and over in the snow. My old football training stood me in good

stead for I had made a perfect diving tackle. Inwardly blessing the

name of Ted Coy, I pinned the lithe, palpitating body to the snow,

repeating more tenderly the soft appellation, "_Akalok, Akalok_."

But my triumph was shortlived.

For the first time her lips moved and from between them burst a wild,

frantic cry, strangely familiar to my ears.

"Makuik! Makuik!"

At the repetition I heard a shriek of pain from Swank and glanced over

my shoulder in time to see him rise in the air. The ice block was

shattered beneath him and I saw an ugly stub of seal-spear, thrust

accurately where he had formerly sat. Directly back of him leaped

an ape-like figure as swart and scowling as a Japanese war mask. He

carried a terrific weapon, a keen-edged blubber cutter, with which he

made directly at me.

At ten paces I recognized him but too late to stop the impending blow.

Firing over my shoulder, a tricky shot at best, I shattered the bone

blade into a thousand fragments, at the same instant jumping to my feet

and shouting--"Makuik! Tapok!"

I had given my name, "Tapok," the Icelandic pronunciation, and at the

sound he stopped like a man shot.

"Makuik!" I cried again.

His ferocious scowl faded through stupefaction to astonishment and

gleeful recognition.

"Tapok!" he rumbled, spreading his arms wide. "_Kata pokok_ Ikik

_nakatok_!"

I regret that I cannot translate his remark which was highly improper

and referred definitely to the woman, Ikik, who stood trembling beside

us. She had raised her oomiak and now, to hide her blushes, folded her

glorious hair across her face so that she resembled some divine being,

half goddess, half skye-terrier. Back of the screen I saw her blue eyes

shining and caught a suppressed gurgle of mirth. All, then, was not

lost.

In the meantime the cairn was humming like a mighty hive while through

a re-opened aperture crawled other individuals, first a younger Eskimo,

a mere stripling, followed by four other Eskimos, all radiant blondes.

One of them carried a child, slung over her shoulder in her oomiak.

At a command from Makuik, Swank was helped to his feet, the spear being

extracted from his person by Snak, a slender maiden with a mischievous

smile who deftly poulticed the wound with a handful of snow.

If the reader is astounded at the sudden turn of events he can imagine

my feeling when my eyes rested on Makuik, mighty hunter of the Kryptok

tribe, whom I had last seen twenty years ago when we had fought our way

four hundred miles across broken ice from Ki, an uncharted speck north

of Iceland, to Archangel. It is a long story. Suffice it to say that

I had saved his life twelve times during the trip while he had done

nearly as well by me. We had sworn eternal blood-brotherhood and the

word of an Eskimo is as good as his bond; better, in fact.

The Kryptok tongue came back to me fluently and I quickly assembled the

family group--for such it was--in our dugout where a distribution of

A-P and such small presents as I could lay my hands on transformed what

had been two hostile camps into one joyous assemblage.

While the women gurgled their satisfaction over their new fly swatters

and empty herring boxes, vying with each other in their attempts to

ease Swank's pain, Makuik explained the situation.

The women were all his wives, fruits of victorious battle. They were of

the Klinka tribe, perfect blondes, as I have noted. The young man was

his oldest son by an Iceland mother.

"Too old. I eat. No good wife ... good eat," he explained frankly.

The infant was his youngest. There would be others. His party had been

caught at the Pole by an unexpectedly early summer. For protection from

the heat they had taken to the cairn, there to await the winter freeze

which would make travel comfortable and possible.

"But why did you hide?" I asked.

"Me not know," he said, smiling craftily. "You have trees."

"Trees?" I mused, then burst out laughing. Of course! He referred to my

imperial and goatee, which I have worn since my service in the Bodansky

Zouaves, and which he had never seen!

It was as clear as day.

Chuckling with delight, the old warrior showed me over their living

quarters while I marvelled at his vigor, preserved in this world of

ice. The interior of the cairn was astounding. Instead of entering a

domed chamber, similar to the many igloos I have inhabited, we went

down, down for a surprising distance. The entire habitation was hewn

from the eternal ice to depths far beyond the reach of sun or storm.

It was a three-room-and-bath arrangement, the latter consisting of a

trough, at a slightly lower level than the main floor, filled with

lucent seal oil. The rooms were respectively, living-room (which also

served as kitchen and dining-room), bedroom, simply furnished with

community sleeping-bag, etc., and storeroom, piled high with blubber,

fur-steaks, walrus eyes and other Eskimo dainties. The temperature

was slightly below freezing, a delightful change from the prostrating

heat we had been enduring, though I will confess that I began to think

longingly of mittens and bear-skins and was glad when we once more

ascended into warmer atmosphere.

I reached the surface just in time to meet the returning members of my

party who, needless to say, were faint with astonishment at the change

in conditions.

General introductions were in order and a blithe evening meal was soon

under way. But how different a feast from the man-made orgy that had

disgraced our arrival. How completely the presence of these gentle

savage women had altered the complexion of our enjoyment.

Sprawling about Ikik and Snak, and the other three, Yalok, Klikitok and

Lapatok (whose babe had been placed in its cold storage niche), my

companions engaged in all sorts of innocent foolery. Though they spoke

not a word of each other's language a subtle understanding had sprung

up between them. Was it the common strain of Caucasian blood or simple

sex calling to even simpler sex? I cannot answer.

Frissell had produced a lavish supply of toys from his pack which made

an enormous hit. Ikik had a colored doll which she nursed affectingly.

Lapatok joyfully wound a police rattle, while Snak, Klikitok and Yalok

sucked rubber teething-rings with evident relish.

Makuik reserved for himself a monkey-on-a-stick which he regarded as a

sceptre, the mechanism of which pleased and mystified him.

At nine o'clock Whinney announced triumphantly that his radio was

working. He switched it on and we listened in awe while a far-away

voice, introduced as Miss Anita Scatchett of the New Jersey State

Normal School, told a Bedtime story, "How the Animal Crackers Came

Alive."

I say "we listened in awe." I must amend that statement. For a

few moments I was mildly impressed. It did seem odd to think of a

gentle spinster in Newark, thousands of miles away, speaking to

these children of nature. But as far as our guests were concerned, the

feature was a dud. The subject matter soon began to bore us all and we

shut it off, to Whinney's disgust.

A FAR-OFF FASHION-PLATE

In the charming scene herewith depicted, Yalok, the beautiful Klinka

belle, is posing as if she were a mannequin on parade in some

lovely _al fresco fête_, as indeed she is. The background in itself

is interesting, showing, at stage right, the Tarpaulin Tea-House

erected and conducted during the Summer months by Herman Swank, Dr.

Traprock's artistic fellow-voyager. To this picturesque châlet the

Eskimo maidens turned with womanly instinct and its accommodations,

limited to two, were in great demand. Mr. Whinney, when not

entertaining a personal guest, sat outside. But these intimate

details need not detain us.

The principal figure is Yalok who, for the purposes of photography,

has donned the very latest 1922 Spring-model sports-suit. She wears,

it will be noted, "a woman's crowning glory"--her own hair. The other

glories are supplied by the hair of various animals indigenous to the

Arctic.

Reading from North to South this snappy get-up consists of the otary

over-smock or slip-in with sliding sleeves of unborn-seal, the

roomy "roamers" of polar bearskin and the pliant _chassures_. The

sleeves, another loose seal effect, modestly cover the entire arm

or arms and flare back vehemently from the gauntlets, which may be

eider-down or up. The roamers, again, cut loose from conventional

lines and melt suavely into the retroussée wading slippers. The last

mentioned articles are fashioned from the pelt of the Amok, which

usefully grows hair on both sides of its hide. The fore-and-aft apron

or windshield is nattily edged with ermine and at the back runs

smartly into a train. A last-minute accessory is the fly-swatter, Dr.

Traprock's gift to the lady, which is held at the correct angle of

45°.

More important, however, than mere costume is the art of wearing it,

an art in which this lovely model is evidently entirely at home.

Her position is that demanded of a debutante in the most exclusive

Eskimo society, when she is presented to a distinguished foreigner,

the head modestly bowed, the eyes downcast, the arms in an alluring

come-and-get-me position and the feet gracefully parted in the middle.

A final touch of chic unreproduceable by photography but which has

all the allure of a truly Parisian _pomboire_, is the perfume (Eau de

Musk-ox) which adds its ineffable odor to this arctic rose, a hovery

halo, and exquisite ectoplasm.

[Illustration: A Far-off Fashion Plate]

A few moments later I rose with a start. Something in the air chilled

me with horror. Glancing toward the horizon I gasped, then quickly

caught myself.

The sun was half hidden below the horizon! The light was distinctly dim!

I thought no one had noticed my involuntary start, but Makuik, though

seemingly absorbed in his monkey, leaned toward me and whispered,

"Night come."

Night! My God! It had stolen upon us unaware. We would be caught,

trapped in the deadly grip of the North King who had claimed so many

brave men before us.

The darkened atmosphere suggested but one thought.

"Bed," I said. "Sleep."

My oblivious companions took it as a signal for dispersal. They rose

reluctantly. Good-byes were said. Noses were rubbed affectionately.

Then an embarrassing episode took place.

Makuik, who had marshalled his flock before him, suddenly seized the

lovely Ikik by the shoulder and thrust her into my arms.

"You take," he said, smiling broadly. "Me give."

Her warm body pressed against me, not unwilling. It is the Kryptok

custom, as usual as giving a man a drink.

Confused and inefficient, I stood there. But my perplexity was

shattered by another surprise. A compact, wiry form hurled itself

between us. It was Sausalito, her face livid with fury!

"You let that woman be!" she shrieked, panting, glaring.

Makuik shrugged his shoulders and pushed the Eskimo woman roughly

toward her fellow wives. Then, turning, he glanced contemptuously at

Sausalito.

"No good ... you eat." He leered, swinging off toward his sub-cellar.

"Dog-face!" screamed Sausalito. "Pig's-foot...."

Triplett's great hammer fist struck her squarely on the jaw and she

sank limp in his arms.

Late that night I lay tossing on my blankets, prey to a thousand

conflicting emotions, fear, joy, and sickening anxiety, beneath which,

like the burden of a refrain, ran the overwhelming thought: "She loves

me. Sausalito loves me. What shall I do?"

It was the first time such a proposition had ever daunted me.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 17: Literally.

"When the wine of his love

Is the grave of his wit."

See "The Song of Beer-wolf," trans. by Ola Ramberg.]

[Footnote 18: Puvis de Bloue says, in his "Voyages Blageux" (Flammarion

ed., 1918) "les yeux sont l'enemie de la verité."]

[Footnote 19: A variant of the always interesting skunk family,

distinguished by the constant orientation of its physical peculiarity.

It is perfectly safe to capture these little fellows from the south.

The Arctic type has been found as far south as Lake Wayagamac.

(See "Among the Moufette." J. Pell, Col. Coll., N.Y.) The pair captured

by Plock had been nullified by the usual method. Author.]

Chapter VII

_Still procrastinating. Our pastimes at the Pole. An exchange of

love-tokens. Ikik's avowal. Caught in the embrace of the Aurora._

Chapter VII

The longer I live the more of a fatalist I become. Looking back on

the weeks which followed our meeting with Makuik and his family I see

myself powerless in the grip of a force superior to my own. How else

can I account for the procrastination which, day after day, week after

week, held me in my perilous location. For that it was perilous my

brain told me clearly.

Seven previous trips into the Arctic had taught me that its climate

could be treacherous as well as friendly. If I have seemed to expatiate

on the tropical warmth of an exceptional summer, the hottest on record

in the meteorological archives of Iceland (which are the oldest in the

world), rest assured that it is with no wish to encourage ill-equipped

pleasure-parties to venture forth into these icy solitudes. I have been

warned by an eminent polar authority that it would be dangerous and

wrong to instill this idea. I thoroughly agree with him. Woe betide

the week-end tripper or basket-picnicker who fares beyond eighty-six

with no protection other than a warm sweater and a quart thermos of

coffee! He is doomed before he starts or immediately thereafter. When

the short summer wanes the thermometer plunges without warning to

incredible depths and almost certain disaster results.

A NIMROD OF THE NORTH

A large volume might be written about this illustration alone.

Big game hunting, in the last analysis, is usually a feeble sort

of sport. The stalking of itself is a beneficial form of exercise

but when at last the two strong brutes, human and animal, stand

face to face it is an odds-on bet on the human. An express-bullet

takes little account of hide or hair. Compared with this form of

target-practice, fly-swatting and mosquito-slapping are gallantry

itself.

We may learn something from Makuik, the Kryptok huntsman who is seen

_en face_ in the act of capturing part of his winter's meat-supply

in the person of a magnificent specimen of the _ursus polaris_.

The method universally employed by the Eskimo is that of the

surprise-onslaught. Polar bears, for some reason, do not expect to be

attacked by men from the air.

Perched on a rocky eyrie the native huntsman warily scans the floe

for his victim. The path beneath the precipice is baited with small

cubes of seal and pemmican meat along which the prey is led by

appetite just as children at birthday parties are led through the

mazes of a peanut-hunt. When the bear is directly below him, the

hunter springs silently into the air and descends like a falling

archangel on the creature's back. A hunter's prowess is measured by

the height from which he dares to jump. Makuik holds the Kryptok

record in this event is 40 Kyaks (approximately 520 ft.). At the

termination of a successful jump the bear breaks the fall and the

fall not infrequently breaks the bear. But the risk is great and in

case of a miss the Nimrod becomes forthwith data for the actuaries

and food for the bear. As in all aerial feats the important part is

the landing.

In the incident portrayed the result was the not unusual one of a

glancing blow. Striking the bear's shoulder Makuik was thrown for a

loss of seven yards, not, however, before he had pinned one of the

bear's paws to the ice with his keen-edged ratak. From then on the

fight was a fierce hand-to-paw affair, one round to a finish with the

incessant in-fighting, knife against claw, brain against brain.

Makuik won the decision after forty-three minutes of gruelling

and growling work, not without considerable damage to his person.

Throughout the battle he consistently placed his knife-thrusts where

they could later be made into buttonholes by his beautiful wives,

beginning at the lowest button and working upward to the lapel. The

bear was thus actually tailored during the process of destruction.

_Forest and Stream_ please copy.

[Illustration: A Nimrod of the North]

And yet, knowing these things, I stayed. Discarding all plans,

scrapping all schedules, denying all reasons, I delayed, lingered and

waited. For what? Death, perhaps, but before death, Love! Ah, love!

love! mad will-o'-the-wisp, flaming with tragic intensity in the very

core of a berg, destroying passion, paralyzing my will-power even as

the spirit of winter laid his icy hand on my shoulder.

My companions, fatally influenced by my example, were no longer

restless but completely satisfied with their surroundings and with the

society of the Klinka women who, as the light waned and the temperature

dropped, ventured more and more into the open.

Nowhere in the world will one find such gaiety, friendliness, and

generosity as among these child-like denizens of the North. I do not

except even the glorious Filbert Islanders who were my own discovery.

During many a long twilight I sat with Whinney, Triplett and Swank

about the Primus stove which we now found comfortable, chatting of

our Polynesian friends and evoking many a tender memory. Of all who

made that famous cruise only our former crew was missing, Thomas, the

sailor-man whom we left behind. But I could not find it in my heart to

envy him.[20]

Compared with northern tribes all Polynesians are slow and lethargic.

Nothing could exceed the swift grace of these glorious Klinkas, and

many a day of rare sport we had while there was still light. Our

contribution to the program usually consisted of an American game

adapted to local conditions: tennis, using the native snowshoes

for rackets and balls of inflated fish-membrane, or golf over a

sporty nine-hole course with constantly shifting snow-bunkers and

water-hazards. This variable quality in the links made play extremely

interesting and likewise supplied a much needed alibi for our scores.

Frissell's inventiveness created extraordinary good clubs out of parts

of our cooking utensils lashed to whale-bone shafts, with which it was

no unusual thing to drive upwards of seven hundred yards. The idea is

covered by patents.

To my amusement Makuik and his entire family were deathly afraid of

the pogo-sticks. In their simple minds this contrivance was endowed

with life of its own. When I finally forced one on Ikik she planted

it fervently on a little cairn where it was worshipped as a God. How

strangely the idea of the totem-pole persists! And speaking of poles,

no outdoor sport proved more popular than tether-ball, with the ball

tethered to the Pole itself.

The Eskimos were far from lacking in amusements of their own, though

these naturally had a direct bearing on some ulterior object such as

blubber for food-supply or furs for warmth. It has remained for the

superior white races to invent games which are of no use whatever.

Time and again Makuik thrilled us by his long distance harpooning of

seals which now sought the floes in large numbers.

The perfect poise, the powerful thrust, the long trajectory and the

final, squashing hit just behind the ear were enough to excite the envy

of an Olympic javelin thrower.[21] The feat was the more remarkable

when it is considered that a seal's ear is on the inside and,

therefore, invisible.

Some of the novices in my party were slightly overcome by the mad rush

of Makuik's family toward the stricken carcass from which they tore and

devoured long strips of blubber, but needless to say this was an old

story to me. Fresh seal's eyes are a coveted tid-bit, and I was much

touched when Ikik brought me one, warm and quivering, in the palm of

her hand. It was plainly a love offering as I saw when I looked from

her eyes to that of the seal. One should chew them, not gulp them down,

in order to get the full flavor which is not unlike a Cape Cod oyster,

though more salty and slightly oily.

The women were particularly fond of leading us on searching parties in

quest of seal roe, which we found in large quantities in the shallow

nests lined with the yellow wax which exudes from the pores of the

mother. Both roe and wax are highly prized by the natives who spread

them, mixed, on squares of seal hide, forming sandwiches. In winter

the seal fur is also included on account of the extra warmth which is

provided.[22]

It was a happy thought of mine to present Ikik with an enormous church

candle which, having been blessed, had been presented to me by the

Bishop Metaxis Polyphlosboios in Constantinople. Ikik and I were alone

when I offered it, in return for the eye she had given me. I wish my

readers could have seen her divine smile as she touched, smelled and

finally tasted the white cylinder, which was so much more refined than

the fresh fat and tallow which had been daily pabulum.

"_Tapok, Ataki!_ Traprock, I adore you!" she cried, throwing herself at

my feet and chewing the uppers of my moccasins, the native expression

of complete devotion.

"Enough!" I murmured, raising her by her hair; "here come the others."

Though my "affaire de cœur" was progressing satisfactorily, I was

forced to walk warily. Some of my fellows were infernal busy-bodies and

Sausalito, poor wretch, watched over me with furious jealousy.

Innumerable were the diversions of those happy, happy days, the mad

pursuit of an occasional musk-ox, of which the women were insanely fond

because of the perfume derived from its peripatetic gland, and the

absorbingly interesting observations of the Arctic guppys, those unique

fish which bear their live and full-formed young on the ice without

the tedious formality of laying an egg. The mother guppy immediately

eats her offspring and the race between her and the Eskimo audience to

see which could get the most, was not the least amusing phase of this

quaint accouchement.

And then the long, twilight evenings, snuggled down in the deep furs

of our friends, sharing the warmth of our tiny Primus under the Kawa's

lee, crooning our songs, passing our plugs and our gay banter. I feel

sure than I shall never be nearer heaven.

On an immemorial date, for our watches had long ago run down, we sat

thus in our little Arctic circle listening languidly to a number on

Whinney's radio,--"What the Sunday Schools of Kansas are Doing," I

believe it was,--no; "The weather a hundred years ago today," that

was it,--when I suddenly realized that it was dark; not twilight, but

actually dark!

Can you realize what that meant to me? Startled, I withdrew my thumb

from Ikik's soft lips and raised myself on my elbow. About me in the

gloom were vague bundles, Swank and Yalok, Frissell and Snak, Whinney

and Lapatok, Wigmore and Klipitok, Triplett and Sausalito, silent,

rapturous, oblivious. But a strange thing was happening.

All about the circumference of the great ice bowl, of which we were the

center, rose trembling, blue flames. I could hear their fluttering hiss

and crackle. Now they leaped higher, shooting out giant arms toward

the zenith, waving lambent fingers, shivering, interlocking, melting.

My companions, aroused, sat up and I could see their startled faces

lighted by an unearthly light.

The noise and glare increased. Swishing waves of fuchsia-pink swept

up the sky; muffled explosions were followed by writhing snakes of

lemon-yellow and far-flung globes of purple and crimson gleamed in the

sky while, directly overhead, millions of miles away, the North Star

looked down indifferently.

At times the wall of encircling flames, now approximately ten miles

high, leaped in unison, to a diabolical rhythm; again they moved about

us in procession, gigantic, towering, flapping, hissing, whistling,

rippling, a night-mare of glorious colors which have no names. The very

ice below me, cracking and groaning, was shot with fiery veins.

AN ARCH ARCHEOLOGIST

One of the most pathetic figures in the author's startling "exposure"

is that of Bartholomew Dane, the Egyptologist who is here shown with

Snak, his Klinka assistant, pursuing his speciality of comparative

archeology.

A word as to Dane's previous record may bring some information

to the few Americans who have not made archeology, with emphasis

on Egyptology, a hobby. Born of Nordic stock (his maternal

Grandmother was one of the Iceland Krakkens), educated in the

more-than-usually-common schools of South Bend, young Dane showed

early aptitude in geography, history and kindred studies. His

passion for research work was early in evidence his every leisure

moment being spent in the examination of abandoned cellar-holes,

cisterns, wells, rubbish-heaps and public dumps. His parents,

fearful lest their son turn out to be a rag-picker secured for him

an under-janitorship at the Natural History Museum of New York City,

doubtless hoping to thereby shift the blame for his development

from South Bend to the Metropolis. From then on his rise was rapid.

Working his way up from the cellar we next hear of him as Secretary

to Prof. Thurston Mudgett of the Extinct Civilizations Dept. His

course from there to the Nile delta was clearly indicated.

Six months later the young archeologist disappeared, only to

reappear six months later laden with honours conferred by the

Egyptian government, a full-professor in the College of Alexandria,

a recognized authority abroad belatedly received with equal honors

at home. His great work on Scarabs among the Arabs is in itself an

enduring monument.

What led Dane northward is a mystery. That he hoped to find the

missing link in the almost completed itinerary of the lost tribes of

Israel we know. That he failed in this dream is a sad fact. But there

is solace in the thought that amid the snowy wildernesses of the Pole

he found in the companionship of the sympathetic Snak a love which

could never have reached him over the hot sands of Sahara.

Due to overwork, exposure and an unavoidable blow on the head,

his mind has failed considerably of late but in his lucid moments

he hints darkly at having made certain interesting discoveries

which have nothing whatever to do with archeology. His earlier

achievements, his protracted sojourn in the Tomb of Put, his

discovery of the Temple of Murad, all these he lightly dismisses.

"The first year was the pleasantest," he laughs; the rest is silence,

and the silence is, we trust for this courageous spirit--rest.

[Illustration. An Arch Archeologist]

The Eskimos had buried their heads in their oomiaks, my companions lay

face downward.

Desperately frightened, I still resolved to face the end, to see what

my dazed senses told me was the final conflagration of the world.

Staggering to my feet, I glared about me, taking in the picture with

all its ghastly details, the Pole and its flags, the cairn, the Kawa,

every block and halyard of which was etched on this field of flame. How

insignificant it all seemed.

The world had finished its trick; it was as a tiny bead, cast away by

the Creator, a cinder in the eye of God!

Suddenly the flames turned incandescently white, rushed toward me and,

on an overwhelming wave of siren wailing, I was swept away, billions of

miles beyond the Pole-star, to Eternity....

* * * * *

Ikik was rubbing my forehead with a cool tundra sponge and her face

above me was that of an angel.

"Did you see?" she asked. "It was beautiful."

The Eskimos were discussing the display critically.

"Too green," said Makuik. "No good. Cold come."

Peering through the darkness I saw the dim outline of the Kawa. The

Pole stood intact. Nothing was harmed, nothing singed.

The astounding truth burst upon me, astounding and important to me

though nothing to these ages-old Aryans.

We had been in the exact center of the aurora borealis.

Another milestone for American science!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 20: William Henry Thomas, cook, valet and foremast-hand who

refused to leave the Islands, where he now rules with the title of

Filbert the First, under an individual mandate conferred by the Paris

Conference. See "Cruise of the Kawa," Chap. 9, p. 133.

W.E.T.]

[Footnote 21: For an interesting account of Eskimo games see the

essay by Dr. R. Petersen. "In Lintinwinger i Kippenskabssel-skabet i

Christiania," delivered April 3, 1920. W.E.T.]

[Footnote 22: I tried to eat one of these fur-bearing sandwiches in

1898 and nearly died laughing. T.]

Chapter VIII

_The Arctic Night. The temptation of Traprock. The pros and cons

of falling. We solve an age-old riddle. Our Polar Christmas. The

love-philtre. Abandonment._

Chapter VIII

"Eighty-six below," announced Captain Triplett the next morning, "an' a

fine, starry night."

Old Ezra was right. Night had fallen while we slept. The long Arctic

blackness had followed our twilight sleep, and we were now in the grip

of its intense cold.

How strangely fate works her miracles! But for my first glimpse of

Ikik and our subsequent meeting, we should inevitably have perished,

clad as we were in our light linen-mesh and flannels. But the Eskimos

had foreseen our peril and supplied us with roomy garments from their

own abundant store. No gift in their possession was withheld by these

warm-hearted people. Gauntlets, socks, boots and great hooded oomiaks

were pressed upon us in which, as soon as we had become accustomed to

their overpowering odor, we were extremely comfortable and were able to

go about during the less severe weather without danger of being frozen

unawares, a very real risk for the novice.[23]

Makuik was insistent that both parties join in sharing the protection

of his sub-surface home.

"My meat, yours ... my woman, yours ... you know."

His words were accompanied by the Kryptok sign of blood-brotherhood

reserved for members of the clan. Were I to divulge it here I should

some day feel the thrust of Makuik's salmon-spear between my shoulder

blades. It was a dramatic feature of Kryptok ritual that a sin against

blood brotherhood may only be washed out by the blood of the offending

brother.

But though I realized the closeness of the tie which bound me to this

furry friend, though every fibre of my being cried out to accept the

gift which he offered so gladly, a gift which meant warmth, happiness,

love!--knowing all this, I was firm in my refusal.

In the face of a temptation, the greatest perhaps of my life, I

resisted, I fought, I struggled.

My reasons were many and complicated. If they were right or not I do

not know, but they seemed so at the time.

To begin with I knew in my heart that the beginning of close clan

relations with these magnificent Klinkas meant the end of the Traprock

Expedition! That we should ever again return to civilization was

absolutely unthinkable. Here, in this winter solitude, I saw the

first glimmerings of the truth over which the scientific world has so

long puzzled. Here was the answer to the old, old, question, "Why do

explorers leave home?" Why have so many never returned?

They have been absorbed by, and eventually into, one of these

magnificent tribes. They have disappeared, or if they have found

their way back to civilization, having proved failures in their new

environment, they are tongue-tied, evasive, ashamed.

If I accepted Makuik's hospitality, in full, I saw another inevitable

result. He would eventually have to die at my hands. There is room in

a small nomadic tribe for but one leader, one "Kalok" or "Strong man."

This is the ancient law of evolution. Bound as I was to Makuik I

hesitated to take the first step which spelt his doom.

THE BATTLE ON THE BRINK

Students of the text of this volume will recall that a distinct

rivalry existed between two of the principal characters, Sausalito

and Ikik. The author makes what to us seems a delicate distinction

regarding the object of this rivalry. "It was," he says, "not so much

me as my love." There is something almost astral in this subdivision.

Be that as it may, a strong feeling of competition existed between

the two ladies which vented itself in frequent passages between them

similar to that illustrated.

In this case the struggle started, as usual, in the most friendly

manner, its object being the possession of a stub of candle, the

last of the great dip presented to Ikik by Dr. Traprock. Developing,

as such things do, from playful wrestling to rough-house, it was

not long before the Klinka maiden found that she was struggling for

her life. Sausalito's experience in catch-as-catch-can work, gained

up and down the Barbary coast, was an equal match for the supple

strength of her adversary and there is little doubt that the result

would have been fatal to one or both participants had it not been for

the timely intervention of Makuik who, seeing how things were going

and fearing possible damage to one of his favorite wives, kicked over

the icy stage upon which the drama was being enacted, at the same

instant throwing the carcass of a bull-seal where it would intercept

the fall of the contestants. Had it not been for the skill of Makuik

in throwing the bull we can well imagine what would have happened.

The animal weighed 220 poks or "meals," that is, approximately 2200

lbs., a "meal" being reckoned as 10 lbs. of any form of food-supply.

After the fall described above a temporary truce was patched up but

the feeling of rivalry remained acute. As the philosophical author

observes, "Being in love with two women is one thing: being loved by

them is another."

[Illustration: The Battle on the Brink]

A final consideration, though not one which bore much weight, was that

there were not enough Klinkas to go round. I have, perhaps, indicated

in my previous chapter, that the process of natural selection, though

far from home, had not ceased to operate. The Klinka women, while

filled with joyous camaraderie, clearly had their favorites and the

pairing which I noted most often was that of Swank and Yalok, Frissell

and Snak, and Whinney and Lapatok.

Frissell amused Snak immensely with his outlandish noises and

imitations, and Lapatok, who stayed near the cairn more than the others

in order to care for little Kopek, her boy, found in the now helpless

Whinney another child upon whom to lavish her affection.

Makuik smiled tolerantly at these innocent relations. The women were

his, when all was said, and I have no doubt that had the faintest wave

of jealousy stirred his primitive heart he would have calmed it by

the old tribal method of holding the offender under water for the few

seconds necessary to allow the ice-opening to freeze over.

Unfortunately the other members of the expedition did not accept the

situation so calmly. Plock, Miskin and Sloff were by no means satisfied

with an arrangement which so plainly left them out of it. Dane was not

by nature a ladies' man, though he took the color of the others' mental

attitude. On numerous occasions I was forced to intervene when a sudden

minor crisis developed. Miskin took umbrage because Snak gave Frissell

the largest piece of blubber, or some other tom-foolery, and before one

could stop it the air was hot with suppressed antipathy.

This state of affairs frankly worried me and I was not anxious to make

it worse by accentuating it in the intimacies which were bound to

develop in Makuik's igloo.

I therefore issued the strictest orders that all my men should bunk on

the Kawa, a regulation which I forced myself to adhere to in spite of

the most terrific temptations. We had completely overhauled our running

gear during the warm weather and now found that by running the Tutbury

at quarter speed, thus charging the batteries, we were able to generate

just the right amount of heat required to keep us comfortable.

We soon adapted ourselves to our new mode of life. All outside

thermometers were hung upside down in order to read properly and

whenever the temperature was above forty below we sallied forth into

the night, on pleasure or profit bent.

An early inspection was made by Miskin, Sloff and myself of the rim

of the ice bowl, immediately following the stupendous display of the

aurora borealis, which had ushered in the winter. Makuik accompanied

us and it was from the naive comments of this child of the north that

we arrived at a solution of a large part of the problems in connection

with this phenomenon.

As we travelled about the circumference of the bowl I was at once

struck by a deep trench or moat which followed its outline. The sides

of this moat, which averaged approximately 200 yards in width, were

glazed with freshly formed ice which appeared at first to be black in

color. A closer inspection showed that this color was derived from a

sub-surface stratum of finely powdered carboniferous deposit similar to

coal or cinders. At no place were we able to reach this deposit owing

to the shortness of our ice picks, but both Miskin and Sloff agreed

that the buried material was clearly a metallic slag which had been

subjected to extreme heat.

It was at this point that Makuik injected his interesting personality

into our deliberations. Observing our puzzled looks he stooped and

gathered up a handful of loose snow crystals which he thrust into his

mouth, at once expelling them with a mighty gust of breath. Then he

clapped his stomach and said--

"Ice ... sick ... so ... pouf!" another great blast.

My mind flashed back instantly to the claims of an old scientist of

whom I had heard my friend Waxman speak, one John Cleves Symmes. As far

back as 1819 Symmes had advanced the theory that the earth was hollow.

His exact statement reads "the earth is hollow and habitable within,

being composed of a number of solid, concentric spheres." Unfortunately

Symmes was unable to travel further north than the site of what is now

Racine, Wis.,[24] so that his theory remained only a theory and he was

eventually laughed out of court.

Now, over a century later, I was to verify a part of his suspicion.

That the earth was hollow we could not doubt. Subsequent excavations

in the great polar ditch confirmed what we had begun to realize.

The entire section of earth crust at this end of the axis was loose!

Deep in the bowels of Mother Earth still burned the terrific primal

fires, occasionally venting themselves in some such upheaval as we

had witnessed. Whinney later corroborated the findings of Sloff and

Miskin regarding excavated specimens of the slag, namely, that they

were composed of rhyolite rocks, pulverized lime and other building

materials plainly produced by volcanism. The ceaseless whirl of the

earth on its axis naturally throws these expanding substances toward

the Pole until the bung, or world stopper, is loosened. As soon as the

terrific pressure is relieved the ice cap sinks back and the melted

snow at once seals the circular fissure.

It is the discovery of such long-sought truths as this which more than

repays me for the hardships involved. As I pen these lines I can but

bow my head in humble thankfulness to Him who knew too well to fashion

this Earth without a safety valve.

The exact date of this and other discoveries is indeterminate. Since

the stopping of our chronometers we had gone mainly by guesswork. I was

fully aware, from the advent of the polar night, that time had slipped

on to approximately September 20th. Knowing our exact position (Lat.

90°, Long. 0) it was a simple matter for Triplett to re-establish a

definite day schedule by the theodolite-hygrometer method combined with

astronomy. The weather was now clear and excellent views of the stars

were obtainable from any given point. Altair, Vega and Betelgeuse were

particularly visible, but Triplett's favorite constellation was the

Dipper, the handle of which he usually triangulated with Cygnus and

ourselves. Three successive observations gave Saturday, September 28th

as the correct answer and I forthwith posted notices of this fact,

which was celebrated by a joint feast.

Night, it is said, is the time for reflection and I now had ample

opportunity for this exercise. Unfortunately for the philosophic calm

which might have resulted from thought, Ikik, my lovely northern

sweetheart, had other ideas as to the proper disposal of the nocturnal

hours. The glances which she levelled at me across the Primus were, to

say the least, importunate. Little by little I felt my icy resolution

thawing beneath her tropic influence.

It was an odd situation. About me the wastes of berg and floe, the

mercury skulking in the basement of the thermometer, while in my heart

burned an increasing glow that would not be extinguished. Yet I fought

on, a St. Anthony of the North.

Christmas came, as it will even in this distant clime. The event was

marked by a general celebration. As I went about the preparations for

the feast I little realized how tragically the date was to stand out in

my memory.

Morning dawned dark and clear. We used the Pole for our tree, having

fashioned branches of oars, pogo-sticks and other suitable materials.

During what would have been the fore-noon we groped our way to the edge

of the ice bowl, in groups of two or three. I was in one of the groups

of two. The other half was Ikik.

Sitting in silence on the edge of the earth crater, I mused sadly. How

wonderful, I thought, if the great safety valve would but open and bear

my love and me away in its flaming arms. But the conflagration was to

be of a more human and dangerous character.

"See," whispered the maiden. "I have brought my present for you."

How like her it was, to steal away from the others for this sacred

presentation. I peered at the object in her hand. It was a small sack

of translucent fish membrane filled with a viscous liquid.

ODE TO THE AURORA

No more poignant moment in the history of American literature has

ever been recorded by the camera than that shown with this text which

portrays Whinney, the poet-scientist, in the very act of creating his

immortal poem "Ode to Aurora," which John Farrar, the veteran critic,

pronounces "the best classic ode ever written north of the arctic

circle."

As a poet Whinney resembles Milton, in that he is blind. Though this

was only a temporary affliction,--snow-blindness,--its immediate

effects were heartrendingly pathetic. Not only did the unfortunate

traveller miss seeing the Pole and the polar fireworks but he was

also forced to master the most difficult of all literary exercises,

that of operating a typewriter with mittens on. The ancient pastime

of catching a flea while wearing boxing-gloves is child's-play

compared with this achievement. Hour after hour, day after day, the

persistent poet practised his sightless-touch system.

"What does it look like?" he would ask, submitting a page

to Sausalito who had good-naturedly assumed the duties of

nursing-secretary.

"Nothing," would be the invariable reply.

But with dogged perseverance Whinney struggled on, gaining a comma

here, and a colon there, until he had mastered his instrument. The

result all the world knows,--those deathless lines beginning:

"O Aurora!

Not only East, but North as well,

And West! and South!

Th' extraordinary tidings tell!

Flash thy bright beams

And wave thy lambent paws,

Clap thou thy rays

In luminous applause."

For sheer glory of color the description of the aurora which forms

the main part of the ode has never been equalled. And then the solemn

close, touching in its modesty.

"Tell thou the world,

That it remember shall

The names of Traprock!

Whinney! Swank! et al."

Since returning to this country Mr. Whinney has taken out a regular

poet's licence and is now turning out verse of the very highest

standard.

[Illustration: Ode to the Aurora]

"What is it?" I asked tenderly.

I could feel her flush against my cheek.

"Walrus tears."

"Walrus tears?" Ah, yes, I remembered. Years ago an old woman in

Bjarkoi had told me that the tears of a male walrus if caught fresh,

were an infallible love potion.[25]

"Like Tristan and Isolde," I murmured. She shook her head,

uncomprehendingly.

"Drink!" she whispered.

Smiling at the superstition, yet unwilling, unable, in fact, to resist

the pleading look in her eyes, I loosed the thong and placed the sack

to my lips.

The next instant she was in my arms!

My brain reeled. The stars danced dizzily overhead and were then

blotted out. A moment later I became aware of a ludicrous and

embarrassing circumstance. Locked in each other's embrace we were

sliding down the icy incline of the bowl!

We struck fairly in the midst of a group composed of Triplett, Makuik

and several others who greeted our arrival with roars of laughter;

surely a strange ending to a "crise d'amour."

At four-thirty we lighted our tree and had carols, presents and

general dancing. At six the feast was served, the heaping ice slabs

being placed along the counter of the Kawa which was decked with

her full suit of colors and all her extra riding-lights. Pemmican,

blubber-steak, seal- and walrus-eyes, hide-salad and guppy-croquettes

were supplemented from our waning stores of biscuit, herring, ham,

candles and A-P. Even little Kopek was not denied a place and sat near

his mother sipping a soapstone cup of modified whale's milk.

Swank had compounded a new drink for the occasion which he called

"Traprock tea," consisting of A-P shavings dissolved in salad oil with

a number of live guppys flapping about on the surface, "to give it

animation" as the inventor explained.

The animation was certainly not lacking and the fun waxed fast and

furious.

At an earlier date, late in November, an all night poker game had been

instituted by Wigmore, with whom this sport was a ruling passion.

Warned by me, the participants had signed an agreement to quit promptly

on the 15th of March, in order to avoid the bickering which might be

expected when some loser inevitably insisted that they play "just a

week" or a "month more." The gaming element now drifted away, one by

one, toward the table in the Kawa's cabin. Most of the others had also

withdrawn into the obscurity. Little Kopek had long ago been put to

bed. Makuik, I regret to say, was helpless.

It was then that I noticed for the first time the absence from my side

of Ikik. She had stolen off, unobserved. Rising, I lurched steadily

around the cairn. My head was aching, my heart full of unspeakable

longing and sorrow. Was it the Traprock tea or the love philter?

Probably both.

Resolutely turning my back on the camp I walked to the far edge of the

ice bowl where I sat down. One by one the lights of the celebration

flickered and went out. I heard the card players shouting their maudlin

good-nights to each other. Once a voice shouted "Traprock!" and,

following a remark I could not catch, came a burst of coarse laughter.

Then all was silence.

An hour later I arose with a slight shiver; it was 38 below. Though my

hands and feet were numb, in my veins throbbed liquid fire. Remorse

gnawed at my heart. What had I said to Ikik that had turned her from

me on this, of all nights, our first Christmas together?

Reaching the side of the Kawa, where all lay plunged in slumbers a

sudden thrilling resolution flooded over me. I must see her!

I must whisper a tender good-night to the one who had grown to mean

more to me than all the rest of the world.

Turning abruptly, my brain reeling, I made directly for the entrance to

the igloo.

The door-block slid back noiselessly. A moment later I stood in the

low room, hesitant. The single tundra wick gave a dim light through

which I saw Makuik's beady eyes fixed on me. With a sweeping gesture he

indicated a vacant space in the line of deep breathing figures. Then he

too sank back and instantly began snoring.

With infinite care I crept over the human mounds until I sank into the

space Makuik had pointed out.

Touching the figure next me I whispered in the lowest of tones.

"Dear one, I have come to say good-night."

She turned toward me, her face shadowed in her oomiak, soft arms twined

stealthily about me as a vibrant voice murmured "Walter!"

I bounded to my feet with a cry of dismay that caused the sleepers to

stir uneasily.

The woman followed me as I hurdled my way to the stairway. In the

entrance I glanced back for a second on a face livid with passion.

It was the face of Sausalito!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: In 1906, off Trollebotn in Helgeland, I saw an

inexperienced Niblick fisherman overtaken by a cold snap. He nearly

froze to death as he was endeavoring to reach our ship (The Primrose),

his motions becoming gradually slower until he finally came to a

standstill, with one foot raised in act of taking a step. We got him

aboard with nothing more serious than the loss of one arm which broke

off as we were lifting him over the side.]

[Footnote 24: The Case Harvester Co. has meritoriously placed a

monument to Symmes on the front lawn of its subsidiary plant, The Belle

Terre Mfg. Co. The monument consists of a large hollow ball of local

granite. Keys at res. of John Reid, Jr., Caretaker.]

[Footnote 25: The Walrus's habit of weeping when one of their number is

captured is one of the most pathetic sights in the world. I once caught

a small calf in the Greely Straits and was immediately surrounded by

the herd which burst into tears as they rose about me. An old bull,

who had hooked his tusks over the gunwhale, cried so copiously that my

kayak was half full of tears which, being ignorant of their value, I

foolishly gave to the natives.]

Chapter IX

_Sausalito's strategy. Orders must be obeyed. We turn southward. The

parting. Mutiny and desertion. In the grip of the Ice King. A fight

to the finish. Victory._

Chapter IX

She came directly to me in the morning. Sleep had calmed her somewhat.

She was cool, but determined. In her hand she held a packet of papers,

sealed with the seal of the E.U.

"Your orders," she said briefly and turned to leave the cabin.

"One moment," I said. "You others, kindly leave us. Sausalito, remain."

She sat down limply.

Plock grinned malevolently as he thumped up the companion-way. He knew

what was coming, the blackguard.

As I took the packet I saw at a glance that the seal had been broken

and clumsily repaired.

Walking to the hatchway I closed it.

"Where did you get these?"

"I f--f--found them," she stammered.

"Sausalito," I said gently, "you lie."

My tenderness disarmed her. Throwing herself on her knees she burst

into a flood of hysterical weeping.

A MOMENT MUSICAL

It is not surprising that Triplett and Traprock were amused by the

reaction of Yalok, the Klinka maiden, to the miracle of the radio.

The author tells us that the "_morceau_" picked-up at the moment

this photograph was taken was a harmonica-solo by F.P. Adams of New

York. Mr. Adams holds all records for plain and fancy harmonica-work,

triple-tonguing, echo-effects, vox-humana and choir-invisible. The

_maestro_ was accompanied at Newark, by D.T. Smeed on the pianoforte.

Had the great artists known the joy they were bringing to the far-off

ice-maiden, while they could not have put their backs into their work

more thoroughly, they would doubtless have felt more amply repaid

than they did when they left the offices of the Westinghouse Company.

The number tried and rendered on this particular occasion was

Tristan's song from Der Erl-Kœnig, the immortal lyric beginning:

"Childe Hassam to a dark tower came," and ending with that pathetic

musical fiasco

"Placing the slughorn to his lips,--

He blew!"

The hitherto-unheard and unheard-of sound of a B flat slughorn,

reaching into these frozen fastnesses, stirred the very depths of

the Eskimo auditor, while the white strangers, unconscious of the

emotional tumult they had aroused, assisted by Messrs. Adams and

Smeed, laughed uproariously at the scene. Dr. Traprock's demeanor,

especially, is positively mephistophelian. Can it be that he thinks

of playing the satanic rôle to Triplett's Faust?

Dr. Traprock assures us that we are too imaginative. "It was a

glorious performance"; he says: "Long may its frozen echoes hover

'round the Pole, to thaw out in successive Springs as the years roll

on. I shall not be there to hear them but I shall be happy to think

that they persist."

[Illustration: A Moment Musical]

"No, no!" she wailed. "I found them. I was putting your brief-case in

order, and then my curiosity got the better of me and I opened them.

But read, read!"

Obeying her injunction I unfolded the papers, and sat back,

thunderstruck. The orders were brevity itself. They said simply. "Sail

south, at once." My face must have expressed my bewilderment for she

continued. "You see! You see! the moment I read them I knew these

orders were a plot, a plot to make you turn back, a plot to discredit

... the man ... I love."

Her voice sank to a low moan and her shoulders were again racked by

sobs. I saw it all now. Consumed by jealousy, knowing the contents of

the papers, she had withheld them until her woman's nature could stand

no more. In the dim light of the cabin, her face transfigured with

tenderness, she was actually beautiful.

I raised her gently from the floor. "That will do," I said.

"I am sorry ... sorry," she moaned.

I pointed to the companion-way and she went out silently.

In the quarter hour which followed I wrestled with a temptation more

terrible than any trial of the flesh, the trial of my honor. Once, my

hand, holding the orders, stretched toward the cabin lamp; a few ashes,

and all would be solved. Then I hastily drew back as if the flame had

scorched my soul. When I finally arose, spent and trembling, I could

proclaim myself the victor.

"Traprock must be true," I muttered. Then striding to the hatchway I

threw it open and stepped on deck.

"All hands aboard to receive orders," I bellowed.

Amid confused murmurs the company assembled.

"Sick?" asked Captain Triplett peering at my white face.

"No; well," I answered. "Men, stow your dunnage at once. We leave in

four hours for New York."

Makuik was surprised, but, I think, not displeased to see us depart.

Though imperturbable, he had felt the responsibility of so large a

tribe. His own way lay toward Iceland, via Ginnunagap and Nivlheim.

Perhaps he felt that as the spring hunting-season opened his movements

would be hampered. He must soon be on the march in order to reach his

destination over the solid ice before he was cut off in the land of

enemy tribes from whom he had ravished their loveliest possessions.

At any rate he worked with a will to speed our departure. Though he

must surely have counted on the probability of none of us ever reaching

safety he remained generous, bright and smiling to the last, insisting

on dividing what remained of his food supply and heaping a monumental

pile of oomiaks, spears and other equipment on the Kawa's deck.

When we had turned our little craft about and cast off our moorings I

stepped into the space between the two parties. It was a trying moment.

I had prepared a short speech for the occasion but found I could not

trust myself to deliver it.

Advancing toward Makuik I silently gave the Kryptok brotherhood sign,

which he returned. I had not seen Ikik since the previous evening but

I now perceived her in the background and noticed that wise old Makuik

had made fast one of her ankles to a large block of ice.

Approaching her quietly I hung an oil skin tobacco pouch about her

neck. It contained a book-plate bearing the Traprock arms[26] and the

device "Traprock must be true." On the back of this I had written, in

Klinka script, "I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor

more."

Blinded with tears, I turned and for the first time in many blissful

weeks, gave the old, old, command, "Mush!"

* * * * *

On February twelfth, we had reached eighty-five. Progress in the

cold and dark was infinitely slower than it had been during the warm

northward journey. The absence of mosquitoes was a compensation but on

the whole travel was much more arduous. The mean temperature from Jan.

1st to Feb. 10th was 68° below, the meanest I have ever encountered.

But I was in no hurry. We were very comfortable on our admirable

craft and a careful reckoning of supplies gave me no cause for alarm.

According to my list, we should be able to hold out for another year if

worst came to worst.

It came to worse than that.

My rude awakening came on February 17th.

It had been a wretched day with alternating snow and blizzard gales.

The thermometers had gone their limit (100 below) and would have gone

further if they had been longer. Cooped up in the cabin, worn with

toil, frazzled with the bickering of the card players to whom I had

given one week of grace for final rounds of roodles, my nerves were

taut and jumpy. I ordered Swank to step aft and fetch me a plug of A-P.

He was gone an unconscionable time and when he returned his face was

blanched with terror.

"The bin's empty, Sir," he reported.

Empty!

I stared at him in amazement. Far into the night I went over my bills

of lading promising myself a thorough stock-taking in the morning.

But the disaffected element on board were ahead of me. When I came on

deck the following day, they were grouped in the waist of the ship.

The only greeting I got was black looks. Bulky haversacks and walking

gear lay piled behind them. Plock stepped forward and began speaking

nervously and rapidly.

"Traprock," he said, "this is where we quit. We've had enough of your

damned seal-skin ship and your pulling and hauling. It's dogs' work,

not men's. If you want to come with us, come. If not, stay here and

freeze to hell. We've taken our share of the chow, and we're off. We

can make better time without you than with you."

I was unarmed and practically alone. The only other man I could count

on, on deck, was Whinney and he was still half blind. But I did not

hesitate a second.

Reaching upward I grasped a heavy icicle which hung from the main stay

sail block and raised it high above my head. "Mutiny!" I cried. Plock

dodged and treacherously thrust in front of him Dane, who received the

full force of the blow. At the same instant the crack of a revolver

rang out and I fell senseless to the deck.

When I regained consciousness four hours later, my first act was to

stagger to my feet. The bullet had inflicted only a bone-bruise, just

grazing my head, and thanks to Sausalito's prompt skill, I was still

alive. She, poor creature, in her humble way, had shown naught but

subservience since we had started southward.

"Where are they? Did you get them?" I shouted.

"No, sir," replied Triplett, shame-facedly. "They got away. Took most

'er the grub, too. You see we wuz unprepared. I was in my nighty."

"So was I," echoed Swank.

"Fools!" I blazed. "Idiots! Cowards! Follow me."

It took their combined efforts to hold me in the cabin. I was still too

weak to put up much of a fight. But the following morning we started.

Leaving Whinney alone, with instructions to fire an answering signal

if he heard our shots, I divided our party into two groups. Dane, I

might mention, still lay senseless in the lazarette. Frissell went

with Triplett, Swank and Sausalito, who refused to be left behind,

accompanied me.

My instructions were to circle the Kawa with a half mile radius

increasing this distance each time the two parties met. Five times this

toilsome operation was repeated. Hundreds of times I paused to scan the

horizon with my glasses. The murky daylight, of which we were beginning

to have a scant two hours, was fading and I was in despair. A short

distance from the ship what there had been of a trail became confused.

The fugitives appeared to have separated. Perhaps dissension as to

direction had already broken out. We stumbled on in despair.

Suddenly a cry from Sausalito brought me up, standing. Her sharp eyes

had detected nearly a mile away, a black figure moving across the ice,

the bulky form of Plock. He was running toward a narrow lead of open

water of which we had encountered several on the previous day. I saw

at once that his plan was to leap the intervening water and trust to

the widening breach to cut off pursuit. There was not an instant to

lose.

Adjusting both hind and fore sights, I took careful aim and fired.

He pitched forward in the act of jumping and lay on the very edge of

the floe. So great was the impetus of his huge carcass, that, to my

horror, I saw his heavy pack slide over his head and disappear into the

inky waters. It sank instantly. He was stone dead when we came up to

him, his body already rigid with cold.

"We shall have to take him back," I said. In my mind was a fear, born

of past experience, that we might _need_ him.

Dragging our loathsome burden we made a slow trip toward the supposed

location of the Kawa. Black night had fallen and we could see nothing.

A fine snow set in. I at once fired the danger signal and was immensely

relieved to hear answering shots from a direction at right angles to

that in which we had been travelling. Such are the narrow squeaks of

polar travel.

We found that Triplett and Frissell had gotten in before us bringing

the half frozen Wigmore, whom they had stumbled across by pure luck.

He was without supplies or oomiak and must have perished in another

five minutes. When he had recovered sufficiently to speak he confirmed

my suspicions. Two hours out from the Kawa a bitter quarrel had broken

out and the deserters had separated but not before Sloff and Plock had

despoiled him of his food and protecting garments. "Another mouth to

feed," I thought bitterly.

Sloff and Miskin were never heard of again. Somewhere in the heart of

the floe their bodies lie, intact. But there can be no hell hot enough

for their souls.

Of our supplies were left two cases of herring and a bale of shredded

wheat, for seven men and one woman.

* * * * *

Now if ever had come the time for me to prove to my comrades the value

of what the North had previously taught me, namely, how to live off

the ice. As has been proven by travellers before me, this can be done.

But the reader is asked to remember that we had embarked on our cruise

with no suspicion that it would ever be necessary. Our equipment was

designed for a mode of life from which only the treachery of a

human element had forced us to depart.

DIRTY WORK AT THE IGLOO?

No, there is really nothing wrong with this picture. Dr. Traprock

explains that a scene of this sort, while unusual is not

extraordinary.

North of Eighty-six a man's rights are what he takes, a woman's

what she can get. The facts of this particular case are as follows:

Lapatok had captured a young pemmican in a snare of her own devising.

Unaware that she was being observed by the all-seeing eye of her

husband, Makuik, she began stripping off the bird's feathers and

scales (with which its underside is covered) with her teeth,

apparently preparatory to eating it. This is absolutely contrary to

Kryptok law. All food is the common property of the family and must

be instantly brought before the Aklok or Strong Man to be cached by

him in the community food bin. Failure to do this means death.

Makuik was quick to act. The expression on his face leaves no doubt

that he would speedily have exacted the extreme penalty (partial

as he was to Lapatok) had she not been able, with her next-to-last

breath, to gasp out the time-honored words "Na-pok!"--"our child."

In the few moments allowed her she explained that her intention had

been merely to masticate the bird, giving the first share to Kopek,

her infant, who was at that very moment desperately stricken with the

teething-sickness, and bringing the remainder to her lord and master.

With true womanly ingenuity she likewise pleaded that as the latest

of Makuik's wives and a member of the Klinka tribe she knew nothing

of Kryptok law. She thus appealed both to her husband's heart and

head with the result that he let her off with nothing more serious

than a severe beating which was terminated by the stern injunction,

"Kapok Fakalok ook."--"A woman's place is in the Igloo." The pemmican

in the meanwhile escaped and may be seen as illustrated, winging his

way out of focus.

As if touched by his wife's plea and anxious to re-establish both her

good-will and his own authority, Makuik later killed the fowl on the

wing with sling-dart thrown from a distance of forty salmon-spears.

(Approximately 280 ft.)

[Illustration: Dirty Work at the Igloo?]

And now we were to experience that fatal lack of living game which as

I have noted, seems to haunt the foot steps of the hunter to whom game

is a dreadful necessity. The season was still early and bird life was

practically extinct north of the circle. Occasionally we sighted an

isolated pemmican or a tiny lapwing, too distant or too small to be

shot at. Our store of ammunition was much too scarce to be wasted in

pot shots. Of seals and walruses we saw absolutely none.

Day after day, in the grisly dawn of the new season, we crept on. Day

after day we tightened our belts and stared each other in the face. And

in the face of each stared a spectre more grisly still.

A few entries from my diary will best record the harrowing tale of what

followed.

"Feb. 23rd. Ate the last of herring this noon. Reduced wheat ration to

1/2 cake for person. Sorted extra clothing (Plock's) for possible food.

Feb. 27th. Shredded-wheat supply fast diminishing. S. busy all day

cleaning Plock's oomiak and leggins. Will it come to him?

March 3rd. Last of leggins for lunch. Whinney slightly ill, but

eyesight improving. A good day's hauling. Crossed two open leads but

saw no seal.

March 4th. A great day! Sighted seal herd two miles away, the first we

have seen on the floe. Stalked them carefully, taking Frissell with me.

By "playing seal," yooping and crawling, succeeded in getting into the

very center of herd where we killed two with atomizers. A great saving

of ammunition. Seal gorge tonight.

March 5th. All hands ill.

March 6th. Same.

March 12th. Finished last of seal. Plock's oomiak tomorrow.

March 14th. No food whatsoever. Very weak.

March 15th. Same. Weaker.

March 16th. (The writing is almost illegible) Plock.

March 19th. Finished Plock. Tough, as always."

March 20th dawned as a day of despair. My companions, weakened by

starvation, refused to pull another ounce. We had come to a standstill.

Scarcely able to stand, desperate, but still unwilling to admit myself

beaten, I set forth alone.

Swank would have accompanied me but fell as he attempted to climb down

to the ice and was unable to rise.

"Don't go," he pleaded.

"Herman," I said, "if the Traprock expedition perishes, Traprock will

be the first man to go."

I wrung his hand and departed. Four miles from the ship I fainted.

Regaining consciousness I crawled on, on my hands and knees. Another

spasm of dizziness seized me and I sank down to rest. As I did so, a

far-off sound reached me, the faint roaring of a bull seal. Peering

across the floe I saw him dimly. He must have been slightly over a mile

away. At 6000 yards I fixed him tremblingly on the crossed wires of

my telescopic sight. Even then his image was vague, but it was now or

never.

Bang! A louder roar reached me and I saw the great brute raise himself

convulsively. But would he still escape me? No! He lay still.

When I reached him two hours later I saw, somewhat to my chagrin, why

he had not moved. He was a giant chap of the "phoca barbata" family,

the bearded seal. His beard was frozen in the ice.

My shot had been wasted.[27]

Fate seems sometimes to play her last trick on a man and, finding she

cannot down him, suddenly gives up and turns to helping him. So it was

in my case.

Fortified by a draught of warm seal oil, which was like nectar to my

lips, I made my way back to the Kawa with as much of the great carcass

as I could carry. The rest was speedily brought aboard. The effect of

the physical reinforcement was magical.

Not only did my comrades' spirits revive but such minor ailments as had

put in an appearance were immediately dissipated. Triplett got well

of a touch of his old scurvy which had been bothering him. Whinney's

eyes cleared up completely and Wigmore who had been quite daffy since

his rescue, became suddenly sane again and, I am glad to say, devoutly

thankful to me for having preserved him from the fate of his companions.

The weather, too, favored us. Constantly increasing light and rising

temperature brought at last the wonderful realization that we had

entered the zone of spring! Never did Spring dawn so gloriously in my

life.

Our progress was now rapid with the Tutbury running magnificently on a

mixture of whale and seal oil, with both main and jigger drawing to a

quartering breeze, we were making approximately twelve knots. A school

of porpoises gamboled about us as merrily as if, as Frissell said,

"school were out!" Whales and walruses spouted under our lee. The date

was April third.

Sausalito, indomitable soul, who had never faltered, had climbed to

her favorite place in the crow's nest. From this high perch I suddenly

heard her voice, shrill with excitement.

"Land ho! Land ho!"

A sturdy cheer went up to meet her and we all scanned the low-lying

cloud on the southern sky line while Sausalito modestly descended.

It was indeed land. Eight hours later we dropped anchor in a sheltered

bay. The sun had sunk below the horizon and violet dusk seemed to rise

from the still water.

Three miles away the lights of an eskimo village twinkled through the

haze and on the falling breeze we caught the sound of the sweetest

singing that had ever fallen on human ears.

It was the song of the workers in the ice fields, harvesting the new

crop for our own America!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 26: A cerf-volant, argent, springing over a barbican, on a

field, or. The whole surrounded by a garter. See Peluchet, Hist. des

Armoires.]

[Footnote 27: On all my trips I have carried the gun I refer to, a

Mannlicher-Schopenhauer, 6 MM, extra heavy. There is nothing compares

with it for long range fire. W.E.T.]

Chapter X

_In home waters. The celebration in our honor. And what of my

companions? Reveries and Recollections. The End._

Chapter X

The balance of my story is briefly told. On April twenty-third, we

picked up Fire Island light and two hours later had received a clean

bill of health from the quarantine station.

The trip back through Baffin Bay had been uneventful. We had come as

we had gone, in a direct line. At Triplett's request we put in at

St. John's. He went ashore, taking Sausalito with him. Late in the

afternoon he returned, alone. His stony eye forbade cross examination,

but I questioned him that night in the cabin.

"She's went back to Californy" he said. "You see, I got kinder tired of

her. Besides I'm headin' back ter Noo York."

Again his slow wink expressed volumes.

I have not seen that strange woman since. She sends me a picture post

card occasionally, usually a winter scene, with mica snow. It is her

inarticulate way of asking forgiveness for the blow she dealt me.

THE CONSULTATION

Nothing was more characteristic of the candor and co-operative

spirit of the Commander of the Traprock Expedition than his constant

willingness to discuss matters with his fellow-travellers. One of the

most moot of all moot questions which frequently presented itself was

that of route. Having arrived at a certain or uncertain point in the

vast snowfields, someone was sure to ask, "Where do we go from here?"

or "Where do you think you are now?"

From the outset Dr. Traprock realized the desirability of an answer

to such interrogations. His experience during numerous previous

Arctic voyages convinced him that most of the bitterness of feeling

which almost inevitably disrupts polar-parties springs from the

unwillingness, to put it mildly, of the leader to satisfy the

natural curiosity of his men in this regard. In order to avoid this

difficulty he had carefully prepared maps showing the progress made

during each day with the projected itinerary, points of interest, and

probable weather conditions. Colored crayons added a decorative value

to the charts.

We here see him explaining to Wigmore, the somewhat belligerent

snow-and-ice-expert, the proposed return route. Instead of confusing

the rather unscientific man with a mass of latitudinal and

longitudinal figures, the Doctor states the whole matter clearly by

saying, "We simply follow the green line."

The fatal results of disregarding this injunction are embodied in the

text. Needless to say they fully prove the value of the Commander's

cartographical skill. An interesting sidelight is the fact that their

daily charts were equally accurate when based on solar observation

or during the long Arctic night when the only basis of authority was

Captain Triplett's amazing bump of locality, which was about the size

of a hen's-egg.

[Illustration: A Consultation]

Just inside the three mile limit we were boarded by revenue officers

from the patrol boat, W.H. Anderson. They made a careful search for

liquor.

"Back to abnormalcy!" carped Swank who was panting to get ashore.

My wires from Grant Land (via Indian runners to Moose Factory) had

warned the scientific world of our arrival. Further details, giving

brief accounts of the deaths of Plock, Miskin and Sloff had been

telegraphed from St. John's.

The same gala array and marine salutation which had sped our departure

welcomed our return. But it was with a heavy heart that I stepped on

the Yacht Club landing stage. My mysterious orders were still to be

explained, orders which, had they reached me when intended, would have

brought me ignominiously home, empty of honors and achievement.

A number of strange faces surrounded me in the club room among which

I recognized Harris, the E.U. secretary, "Harmless" Harris we used to

call him.

"Where is Waxman?" I asked coldly.

A shadow of pain flitted across his face.

"Of course," he murmured. "You haven't heard ... it was very sudden ...

poor Waxman ... heart failure, you know ... the day after we heard of

your safe arrival."

So my old friend Waxman was gone. With the receipt of this news

I instantly dismissed all unkind thoughts I may have had of this

benevolent old man. As I look at his photograph now, on my mantelpiece,

bland and serene, it seems to breathe a benediction upon me. The

pleading look in his eyes seems still to ask for peanuts. May I cherish

always, as he did, a love for other explorers and an interest in their

exploits.

If anything was calculated to further soften my heart it was the more

joyous occasion which followed, the grand banquet given in my honor at

the Hotel Commodore. That entire, mighty hive hummed with explorers and

noted travellers. Overflow meetings were held in the Biltmore, Yale

Club, Grand Central Station and on nearby subway platforms.

The scene in the ballroom beggared description. On the dais with me sat

representatives of all the National scientific bodies and distinguished

guests from abroad. Publishers, artists and editors were present by

the hundreds. Famous actors forced their way to my chair, above which

blossomed the words "Traprock must be true" done in thousands of

Bougainvilleas and snowdrops.

The colleges of the country had sent their delegations, my own Alma

Mater surpassing all with a group of two hundred bright-faced lads

whose merry songs and cheers made the welkin ring. They had come by

special train from New Haven, accompanied by members of the faculty,

for whom the affair was a great junket, you may be sure. Harvard stood

officially aloof owing to their recent ban on Eskimos, but the great

sister university, as well as Princeton, was represented by individuals

who made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in numbers.

When my brothers in the Phi Chapter of D.K.E. arose and sang our

fraternal anthem I felt obliged to remain seated. Let me here explain

that curious action. It was because my mind went back to that period of

terrific strain when I had actually _eaten_ a Brother!

But the thing which touched me most deeply[28] was the presence, at

adjoining tables of the combined Boards of Trade of Derby and Shelton,

sister cities of the Housatonic, and the Derby Fencibles, forty strong,

accompanied by their fife and drum corps wearing the old continental

uniforms. My eyes dimmed as I thought of the stirring times when I

had stepped to that same inspiring music, as we practised our secret

marches back of the old Sterling Melodeon factory.

The chairman of the evening was my life-long friend Irving T. Grosbeak,

R.O.T.C. who was introduced by Luther Slattin the new president of the

E.U. Other addresses were made by Professor Phineas A. Crutch,[29]

F.P.A., S.O.S., Col. Woodwark of the Canadian Mounted and Lord

Beaverboard of the South African Game Commission. The principal

forensic display was by Ex-senator Wicklefield of Wyoming whom Dr.

Grosbeak characterised brilliantly as "The Aurora Borealis of Oratory,

the most dependable geyser in the world since Old Faithful blew up and

became a brook."

But the climax of the evening came when an old man in a red shirt and

fire helmet tottered to my side and with tears streaming down his face,

quavered, "The world may claim Walter Traprock but _we_ own him."

It was old "Shelly" Smith of Naugatuck Hose Co. No. 1. His father used

to spade our garden.

Of course I was called upon for a speech but for the first time in my

life I begged to be excused. My heart was too full. Captain Triplett

stood up in my place and embarrassed me by pointing his horny finger in

my direction and saying repeatedly, "He done it."

Grammatical errors in public always annoy me.

The rest is history. I shall never return to the North. I feel that I

have seen all that it can offer. My work in that direction is done.

Of those who returned with me all but one has carved his niche in the

rocks of time. The exception is Dane, who has never fully recovered

from the blow dealt him, by my arm indeed, but due to the cowardly

shove of Plock. His work in comparative ethnology, however, was

accomplished before he was stricken. His object in making the trip was

to discover the similarities, if any, between the surviving Eskimo

tribes and the early civilization of the Nile dynasties. The only

entry I find in his note books is the rather pathetic one "no report."

He is now occupying a comfortable room in the Shadyside Retreat, Walnut

St., Philadelphia, where he busies himself cutting out paper dolls of

Egyptian character, and where I occasionally visit him.

Frissell remains the same blithe spirit as ever. The horrors of our

return voyage left no more lasting impression on this debonair youth

than a passing fit of seasickness.

Swank and Whinney naturally show spiritual scars, especially the

latter, though he is greatly cheered by the royalties received from the

sale of his sprightly journal, written in total darkness.[30] My two

close companions and I, with the occasional addition of Triplett when

we can lure him from his own diggings often dine together at a cosy

little tea house in Forty-fifth Street. There we plan new ventures and

discuss the old. What stirring memories flock about us, what tender

visions neath Tropic sun and Arctic stars!

Kippiputuona, Babai, Ikik, Lapatok, their names are a sentimental

rosary, a succession of lovely chords, lost chords, but, let us hope,

not the last!

At a recent meeting the recollection of Whinney's affliction evoked

from him this brave comment.

"Just think!" he mused, "to love a woman, to lose her, and to never see

her."

"Whinney," I said, raising my glass in his direction, "there is more in

life than merely seeing."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: Excepting, perhaps, the long telegram from my old friend

Capt. Peter Fitzurse, explaining that he was unavoidably detained

correcting the proof of his forthcoming autobiography. See appendix

for further light on Fitzurse's claim that the three fingers missing

from his right hand _actually were frozen off when he grasped the North

Pole_. W.E.T.]

[Footnote 29: Author of "The Queen of Sheba."]

[Footnote 30: Light on the Pole, by R. Whinney. $5.00 net, $4.50 in

lots of six. Post. prep. Intr. by Prof. C. Towne, Nyack University.]

APPENDIX

In reference to a note on page 180, it seems desirable to reprint below

(1) a paragraph which recently appeared in a New York newspaper over

the signature of Don Marquis, and (2) a copy of the letter written by

Dr. Traprock to Mr. Marquis clearing up the point in question. Ed.

* * * * *

A great deal of doubt is cast by his strange reticences upon the recent

claim of Dr. Walter E. Traprock that he reached the North Pole. Did he,

or did he not, find three fingers at the Pole which were frozen off of

the hand of Capt. Peter Fitzurse when the Captain grasped the Pole,

more than forty years ago, being the first man to lay his hand upon

it? If he did not find these fingers, he did not reach the Pole. If he

found them, and has said nothing about it, his object in concealing

the fact can be nothing else than an unworthy jealousy. Who is this

Traprock, anyhow? Capt. Fitzurse intimates that at the proper time he

has startling revelations to make. It is significant that Traprock was

first heard of a year or two after Dr. Cook ceased to figure in the

public prints.

On Board "Kawa"

Peck's Slip, N.Y.

July 21, 1922.

Don Marquis, Esq.

Park Row,

New York City.

Dear Sir:--

A number of my friends have called my attention to recent remarks

published over your signature which by insinuation cast a veil of

ambiguity over my identity. I am not used to having veils cast over

me and I resent the practice.

"Who is this person, Traprock?" you ask. "Has he ever been to the

North Pole?"

Let the ice-bergs answer! Let the Polar-pack groan its reply. I scorn

to.

You also ask if by any chance I discovered three fingers frozen to

the Pole. I _did_ find three fingers not frozen to the Pole, but

preserved in an otherwise empty gin bottle. They were cached in a

rude cairn, mute memorials of some brave man who had ventured north

of eighty-six. Of course I at once thought of my friend Fitzurse.

Could they be his? The nails were not black enough, but I could not

be sure.

I took them with me to the Pole, purposing to leave them with my

records, but my plans were modified by the extraordinary attraction

which the fingers had for Ikik, Snak and Yalok, three Eskimo women

whom I found living at the Pole, or to be exact, under it.

How, finally, to preserve peace I divided the fingers giving one to

each to wear as a talisman is an enlivening memory. A few days later,

noticing that Ikik was not wearing her finger I questioned her as to

its whereabouts. "Me eat" she said. The others had done likewise. I

trust that any doubts you may have had in regard to my identity etc.

will be dissipated by these circumstantial details.

Yours,

Walter E. Traprock

The

Cruise of the Kawa

By

Dr. Walter E. Traprock,

F.R.S.S. E.U.

A delicious literary burlesque--superlatively amusing. Here are found

the _wak-wak_, that horrid super-seamonster; the gallant _fatu-liva_

birds who lay square eggs; the flowing hoopa bowl, and the sensuous

_nabiscus_ plant; the tantalizing, tatooing, fabulous folk music; the

beautiful, trusting Filbertine women and their quaint marriage customs,

as well as the dread results of the white man's coming--all described

with a frank freedom, literary charm and meticulous regard for truth

which is delightful.

The Cruise of the Kawa stands unique among the literature of modern

exploration. Nothing like it has ever come out of the South Seas. It is

_the_ travel book of years. Strikingly illustrated, too, from special

photographs, it tells pictorially, as well as verbally, the exciting,

amusing and entertaining story of an exploration in the South Seas.

G.P. Putnam's Sons

New York London