Lost in the land of ice

For the moment Bob Baxter could not believe his ears. “I set fire to the warehouse?” he gasped. “It isn’t true!”

“You came out of there and you didn’t belong around the place, so the watchman says. You’ll come to the station house with me.”

“Not much I won’t!” cried Bob.

And wrenching himself from the detective’s grasp, he slipped past that individual and made for the door.

“Hi, stop!” roared the detective. “Stop, you rascal!”

“Don’t run. I’ll make it all right, Bob!” called out Barry, but Bob did not hear the latter words, for he was already out in the hallway and running for the stairs. Down the steps he went, three and four at a time, and a minute later found him out on Broadway. He crossed to the post-office and then went up Park Row to the Brooklyn Bridge and out on the broad promenade.

“They shan’t arrest me, not much!” he said to himself. “I’ve had enough of being locked up. Now old Powell is gone I’m going to remain a free boy.”

He was hatless and penniless, but for this he did not care at first. But after reaching Brooklyn and wandering around the streets for a while he began to feel hungry.

Presently he came to a pork-packing establishment where two icemen were unloading a wagon of ice. The men were working hard and doing a lot of sweating in the bargain.

“Tough work,” said Bob. “Want any help?”

“Can’t pay for help,” answered one of the men. “Don’t make wages enough.”

“You ought to carry the ice in on your back,” went on Bob, struck with a sudden idea.

“On our backs!” ejaculated the second iceman. “Why?”

“It’s easier—if you’ll take off your coats and shirts.”

“Go on!” growled the iceman. “I’ve no time for fooling.”

“I’m not fooling. I always carry ice on my bare back,” grinned Bob.

“I’ll bet you a dollar you can’t carry one of these cakes on your bare back,” put in the first man who had spoken.

“Done!” cried Bob. He looked around and espied the owner of the pork-packing establishment. “You heard that bet, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, and I’ll put another dollar to it,” said the pork packer. “But you’ve got to keep the ice on your back for at least two minutes.”

“I’ll keep it on five,” answered Bob.

The scene was in the yard of the establishment, which was surrounded by a high board fence. Soon Bob was stripped to the waist. The news of the bet began to circulate and a crowd collected.

“The boy will be frozen to death!”

“He can’t carry that ice on his bare back any more than he can carry a red-hot iron plate!”

So the talk ran on, but Bob paid no attention. Going to the ice wagon he raised up a cake weighing at least a hundred pounds and placed his back under it. The next instant the cake of ice was evenly balanced on his back, and he held it there by clasping his hands together under the bottom end.

“There you are!” he cried. “That’s the way to carry ice on your bare back!” And he walked slowly toward the pork-packing establishment with his load.

The spectators were astonished beyond measure, and the icemen could scarcely believe their eyes.

“How does your backbone feel?” questioned the pork packer.

“I’m all right, only it’s making me sweat a little,” grinned Bob. “I like a job like this better in the dead of winter.”

“Whow!” gasped a newsboy who was witnessing the performance. “Dat feller must be from de Nort’ Pole! Say, wot do youse live on—snowballs?”

“No; hailstones and icicles,” laughed Bob. He turned to the icemen. “Want to try it?”

“Not much!” came from both.

Bob kept the ice on his back for over six minutes, then dumped it at the bottom of the pork-establishment lift.

“Now I’ll take my money,” he said quietly, and there was nothing to do but to pass over the two dollars which had been wagered. Soon the lad was in his clothing again, and then he left the neighborhood as quickly as possible, so that none of the crowd might follow him.

“You had better do that for a turn on the variety stage,” cried one man after him.

“No stage for me,” said Bob to himself. “I’m bound for the South Pole.”

Coming past a hat store, he went in and purchased a cheap hat. Then he sought out a restaurant and procured a light breakfast. He was not in the habit of eating much, for Jasper Powell had kept him on a light diet for many months.

After breakfast Bob began a systematic search for the Arrow, for Barry had told him she lay at a wharf in Brooklyn. He found the craft in the middle of the afternoon, and went on board, to find an Irish sailor in charge.

“Yis, this is Mr. Barry Filmore’s yacht,” said Pat Caven, for such was the sailor’s name. “An’ what are ye afther wantin’ av him?”

Before Bob could answer he heard a footstep behind him and Barry appeared, having just come from New York.

“Good for you, Bob; I was thinking I might find you here,” cried the young owner of the steam yacht. “Come into the cabin.”

They entered the cabin, which was a dream of luxury and elegance, and here each told his story.

“I had it out with that detective after you left,” said Barry. “I told him just how Jasper Powell had been treating you.”

“Did he believe you?”

“He had to believe it. Then I went to see a lawyer, and he is going to investigate my money matters for me without delay. He knew something of Jasper Powell’s affairs, and he is afraid money matters are pretty well mixed up.”

“And what about going to the South Pole?”

“We’ll go, Bob, sooner or later. While I’m waiting to hear from my lawyer I’ll have the Arrow taken over to the shipyard and have some steel plates put on her, and I’ll also buy in the right stock of provisions for such a trip.”

“What of that book? I left it behind when I ran away.”

“I’ve got it in my pocket,” answered Barry.

He placed his hand in his pocket and then gave a start.

“By Jove!”

“What’s up?”

“The book is gone!”

“Gone!” groaned Bob. “You are certain?”

“Yes, it’s gone. And I had it safe when I was on the bridge cars, too.”

“If that book is gone, with the maps, the jig is up!” sighed Bob.

“Perhaps I dropped it on the dock. Let us look and see,” said Barry.

Leaving the Arrow, they began a close search along the dock and to the street beyond.

No trace of the precious book could be found, and unwilling to give up the hunt, Barry gradually led the way along until they reached a spot under the tracks of the elevated railroad.

“I stopped at a store here,” he said. “Perhaps I dropped it when I took my money out of my pocket.”