Lost in the land of ice

“Now, then, I would like to know who you are, and how you came to be locked up in that cold room,” said Barry, after he had taken a good look at the boy he had rescued.

“All right, I’ll tell you anything you wish to know,” was the ready reply. “But say, ain’t it hot in here!” And the boy threw off the overcoat Barry had loaned him.

“Hot!” Barry glanced at a near-by thermometer. “It’s only fifty-eight. I don’t call that hot.”

“Old Powell kept the thermometer at thirty-five in my room.”

“Thirty-five! Why that’s only three degrees above freezing!”

“Right you are!”

“And did he keep you there without regular clothing?”

“He did. I was never allowed to put on clothing, excepting when he took me out for an airing in the dead of winter. Then I used to wear a light suit, but no underclothing.”

“Gee Christopher! And what did he do that for?”

“It’s a long story.” The boy paused. “Who are you?”

“I am Barry Filmore, an orphan, the only son of my father, who was a Brooklyn millionaire. He’s dead now, and so are all of my folk. Who are you?”

“I am Bob Baxter. My father was Professor Amos Baxter, who sailed South a number of years ago, to hunt for the South Pole. All of my folk are dead, too.”

“And why was Jasper Powell keeping you in that cold room?”

“He was a peculiar man, and he had a notion that he could get me so toughened that I would never feel the cold. And to tell the truth, I never do feel the cold,” went on Bob. “If you don’t mind, I’ll open the window and get some fresh air.”

“Go ahead, and I’ll put on the overcoat,” laughed Barry, and did so. “Well, this is the funniest thing I ever heard of. It’s a wonder he didn’t freeze you stiff.”

“I used to kick first, but I soon got used to it, and now I rather like being cold.” Bob opened the window wide and drank in the cold night air. “Did you say old Powell was dead?”

“He must be,” and Barry gave the particulars of how the peculiar old man had acted. “He was a queer stick.”

“I guess he deserved what he got,” was Bob’s comment. “But let me tell you, he knew a thing or two.”

“What about?”

“About lots of things—inventions and things to drink from little bottles to keep from starvation, and how to live so that the cold would not have any effect on you. He had it all planned that he and I were to sail for the South Pole next year, to hunt for my father who was lost, and to locate a strange country, said to be inhabited by a tribe of people unknown here.”

“Was he going in secret?”

“Yes. He said he would fit out an expedition at his own expense; that he was a millionaire.”

“I guess he was going to use my millions,” answered Barry, dryly. “He had all his money tied up in inventions. But how did he get his knowledge of a strange country at the South Pole? That region has never yet been explored.”

“I don’t know. But he had it all written in a little book, which he wanted me to learn by heart. Here is the book. I picked it up when I left the room over there and put it in the overcoat pocket.”

Bob Baxter held the volume in his hand and passed it over.

Barry opened it eagerly, to find that it contained half a dozen maps, drawn by hand in red ink, and twenty-odd pages of closely written manuscript.

“I suppose you have studied it pretty well?” he said, as he began to read.

“Yes; I know it thoroughly.”

“And do you believe in this strange land?”

“I wouldn’t like to say as to that. But I would like to take a trip south and learn, if possible, what became of my father and his ship, the Comet,” answered Bob, soberly. “You know he went south to try to locate a treasure ship from California, which was wrecked off the coast of Terra del Fuego years ago. There was a rumor that the treasure ship had drifted toward the South Pole and had become fast in the ice there. The ship had over five million dollars’ worth of gold on board.”

“That would be a find worth making,” observed Barry. “But if you went down there you might become lost, just as your father before you.”

“I’d risk that. I have no ties here, and the cold of the South Pole would have no terrors for me.”

“Did your father leave you in Jasper Powell’s care when he sailed?”

“Yes. But old Powell wasn’t so peculiar in those days.”

“I know that.”

“Then you knew Powell? But of course you did; otherwise you wouldn’t have been at the warehouse.”

“Powell was my guardian, too, although he used to let me do as I pleased. I guess he was wrapped up in his scheme to take you to the South Pole and turn you loose.” Barry paused and began to smile. “Do you know what I think of doing?”

“What?”

“Of taking you down to the South Pole myself. Of course I don’t think we can reach the pole, but we may come close to it, and we may locate that treasure ship and learn what became of your father.”

At the words Bob Baxter leaped up from his chair and grasped Barry by the hand.

“Will you do it? Can you do it?” he questioned. “I am so anxious to find out what really did become of my father. And it would be fine if we could locate all that gold.”

“Let me read this book thoroughly first, and study these maps,” answered Barry. “Luckily I always loved geography, and I know quite something of Cape Horn and its vicinity. But here, now you are out of Jasper Powell’s power, you must wear some regular clothing. Look into those trunks yonder and pick out what suits you.”

“I can’t wear anything heavy—it would kill me,” grumbled Bob. Nevertheless he went to the trunks, and while Barry looked over the contents of the strange book, he put on some thin summer underwear and an equally thin suit of clothing, and likewise a pair of canvas shoes.

“Here are a lot of sailor togs,” observed Bob. “Do you do much sailing?”

“Occasionally—when the humor strikes me,” was the young man’s answer. “I own the Arrow, one of the fastest steam yachts afloat.”

“Would she do for a trip south?”

“Certainly, but if I was going to take her down among the ice of the South Pole I should want her bow steel plated, and want her frame re-enforced, to resist the pressure, you know.”

“That would cost money.”

“I wouldn’t mind the expense. I have all the money I need,” said Barry, carelessly.

“Then let’s go; and if we locate the treasure we can whack up on it.”

Barry laughed at Bob’s frankness.

“You believe in getting to the point,” he remarked. “If we do go, it can’t be right away. I’ve got to look after my personal affairs, now that Jasper Powell is dead. For all I know, he may have been squandering my fortune on the sly and I may be a poor man.”

“By the boots, I never thought of that!”

“This fire is going to cause a lot of trouble all around. You haven’t any relatives, you say?”

“Nary a relative!”

“Then supposing you stay with me, Bob?”

“It’s a whack, Barry—I mean Mr. Filmore.”

“Barry is good enough for me. You can stay with me and I will look out for your interests as well as my own. I’ll place the whole case in the hands of a first-class lawyer to-morrow morning.”

The two talked matters over for an hour longer, and then Barry, who had been out in his yacht half the night before, said he was too tired to remain up longer and went to bed, leaving Bob to rest on a luxurious couch near the open window. By this time the cold-storage warehouse had been flooded with water and the fire was out. Yet the building was practically a total loss.

The sleep of the boy and the young man was not of long duration. At seven o’clock came a loud knocking on the door.

“A gentleman to see you, Mr. Filmore,” said the bellboy, and Barry arose at once and dressed himself. The gentleman proved to be a detective from the nearest police precinct.

“Sorry to disturb you,” said the detective. “But I——” Then he caught sight of Bob. “You must be the boy I am after!” he cried.

“What boy are you after?” demanded Barry.

“The lad who set fire to the cold-storage warehouse. Is this the boy who came down the ladder after you?”

“It is, but——”

“Then he is the rascal. Come with me.”

And the detective caught Bob by the arm and held him firmly.