“You and I, Nora,” said Nick, seeming to talk to his wife with eyes and tail, “shan’t mingle with that noisy gang. I pity Wallace, who has charge of such savages.”

“Aren’t they calling away a boat?” said Nora in the same language.

“They’ve just called away two,” replied Nick; “and we’ve got to stand by to get on board as quickly as anybody. I mean to stretch my little legs on the snow, anyhow.”

The sledge-dogs were barking with joy, and vaulting and leaping over each other, a perfect whirlwind of happiness.

They were convinced in their own minds that they were back again in Greenland, and would soon be landed to live happy ever after. Even the Shetland ponies stretched long necks towards the iceberg. They snuffed something unusual, anyhow, and felt that something was going to happen.

But the behaviour of the bears was strangest of all. I believe that long before the berg was sighted, these yellow-white monsters were aware of its presence on the horizon.

They became unusually restive, walking rapidly up and down their cage, and tossing their heads in the air.

There was none too much room in their quarters, so, of course, they got in each other’s way. Gruff was a good-hearted bear, and kind even to his dog companions, but he knew he was king of that cage, and conducted himself according. If their language of eyes and gestures could be translated into English, it would be as follows:—

“I’m certain,” Gruff said to Growley—“I’m certain, my dear, we are near home at last, and won’t I be glad, just! I’m longing for a bit of fresh seal-steak.”

“And so am I,” said Growley.

“And so am I,” said Grumpey, yawning.

Gruff slued smartly round, and landed Grumpey a blow that sent him sprawling on the deck.

“Who asked your opinion, eh? Can’t you learn better manners than interfere when your king and queen are talking?”

“Which I didn’t mean no harm,” whimpered Grumpey.

“Hold your tongue, sir! You’re not to answer; you’re not to wink even, when I speak. Take that, and that, and that.”

And Gruff whacked Grumpey all round the cage, and made him sit quietly in a corner with his consort Meg.

“As I was saying,” said the king, “when that impudent rascal interrupted me, we must be near home, and I’m going on shore to see how matters stand, as soon’s I get half a chance.”

“Oh, you’re never going to leave me!” cried Growley.

“My dear wife, never! How could such a thing enter your head? I’ll come back when—when—when I’ve had a look round.”

Gruff was as good as his word, and hardly had the boats been hauled up on the sea-foot of the iceberg than, in the stillness of the morning, the sound of a mighty plash was heard, followed by shouting and hallooing. Gruff had escaped, and was sturdily ploughing his way shorewards.

Gruff could have swum twenty miles through the sea, and been just as calm and self-possessed as he was when he hauled himself, hand over hand, up out of the water.

He shook himself, and gallons of spray flew in all directions. He shook himself again and again, and then he was ready for a romp.

He gave vent to a coughing roar that made the welkin ring—a roar that was echoed back from the ice-peaks above, and caused the very boats to shake.

It was a joy-shout, however, and then his antics commenced. They were somewhat ungainly, it is true, for he tumbled on his back, he stood on end, first on his hind legs, then on his head, then he went shuffling off in search of a seal with the two Newfoundlands, who could move much quicker than he, racing round and round him, and barking for joy. No seal was to be found, but Gruff smote, first one king penguin, then another. They lay dead on the snow, the air full of their beautiful feathers. These birds were nice eating, and Gruff made a hearty meal off them, and licked his great chops with satisfaction.

He seemed very happy and contented after this, and lay down in the sun to sleep, while our heroes went prospecting round and over this wondrous island of ice.

When the boys sat down at last on the lee-side of the iceberg to rest and enjoy a sun-bath, what impressed them most, I think, was the intensity of the silence.

There was not a sound to be heard save the lapping of the waves against the ice-cliffs, and the strange cries of the penguins, which, although the birds were fully half a mile off, could be most distinctly heard. No one talked save in subdued tones. To have rudely broken the holy silence would have seemed something akin to sacrilege.

Beyond the jagged snow-ridge was the dark rippling sea—wondrously blue to-day—while high above the sky itself looked like another ocean, the clouds like bergs of snow-clad ice.

“On such a day as this,” said Ingomar, “what a pleasure it is even to live and have one’s being!”

“Isn’t it just like being in another world?” cried Charlie, enthusiastically.

“Ay, lad, ay, and you are already coming under the glamour of the ice-spirit. The influence is felt in the seas around the North Pole, where you’ve been so long; but old sailors have told me that it is far more perceptible down here.”

“The very dogs appear to feel it. Look, both Nick and Nora are sound asleep!”

“No one,” he added, “can understand the glamour that steals over one in these regions. It is usually ascribed to a species of magnetism which affects the mind, the very soul itself, with a gentle, contented languor, which is nothing if it be not happiness. For sailors, who have once experienced it, will return again and again to the seas of ice, and brave dangers cheerfully that the bravest mariners of other oceans would hesitate to face.”

“Is it the silence, I wonder,” said Walt, “that makes one drowsy? I could sleep now.”

“It is the silence, Walt, but not that alone. For we are breathing the purest air in all the wide, wide world. Besides, though we cannot perceive it, the whole of this great island of ice is for ever gently rising and falling on the Antarctic swell.

“But now, boys, what about returning?”

“Sit yet a little longer,” pleaded Charlie. “I like to fancy that we are Crusoes, just we three, or that there is nobody in the world but ourselves and the dogs.”

“Are we going to shoot some specimens of gulls and penguins?” said Walt. “We have our guns. Isn’t it a pity not to use them?”

“No; rather would it be a pity if we did. It is nearly the end of October now, Walt. It is springtime, or almost, in these regions. Why, then, should we disturb the happiness of the feathered race? It seems to me that a curse would follow us in all our cruising if we stained the pure white surface of our first iceberg with the blood of even one of God’s beautiful birds.”

“I fear Gruff has no such romantic scruples,” said Charlie. “For here he comes shuffling down towards us; and with his great chest bedabbled with gore, he does look a very disreputable person indeed.”

Gruff certainly did, and he was rather flustered too, for presently round a neighbouring hummock came Slap-dash himself and a couple of Yak-Yaks.

Gruff was wanted, and didn’t like the idea of going on board just yet.

But more than this, for when the beautiful bear made up his mind not to do a thing, it took a good deal of coaxing to cause him to alter his determination.

Though no one on the ice knew it, the ship had been brought as near to the ice as possible with safety, for under the water a berg is usually four times as large as the portion exposed.

Slap-dash tried all the persuasion possible, but Gruff, although headed off by the Newfoundlands, refused to be wheedled.

Even the dogs did not dare to go too near.

“I advise you to keep at a respectable distance,” Gruff seemed to say. “One touch of my little foot would bury you both in the snow, and you’d never bark again in this world.”

“I’m not going off for hours yet,” he told Slap-dash; and away he scampered to discuss another penguin.

To have attempted force might have led to an accident, and so at long last all hands returned to the boat, and rowed away towards the ship, dogs and all.

Gruff was close to the sea now, and staring after them.

“Oh,” he said to himself, “if that’s your little game, here is for after you. I can’t forget my poor dear wife Growley.”

He leapt into the sea.

Now, when a snow-bear takes to the water, he swims with terrible strength and speed.

To their consternation, they could soon perceive that Gruff was gaining on them, and would undoubtedly attempt to scramble on board, and so capsize the boat.

“Give way, men!” shouted Ingomar. “Pull for dear life!”

A whaler is not a racing-boat, but the sailors made her fly through the water for all that, and all in time they gained the ship’s side and got on board.

Next moment Gruff was alongside also, and on board too. He was so glad to see his wife again that he promptly knocked her into the lee-scuppers.

Then the two had a stand-up fight or a terrible wrestling match.

But bears are like the Lowland Scots, and biting and scratching is their method of making love.

* * * * *

Having made all the observations needed, the good ship once more pursued her way eastwards and by north towards her destination.

CHAPTER IV

IN FEATHER-LAND—A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT

These scraps of conversation are but specimens of those heard on board the good Sea Elephant, fore and aft, when the Walrus people boarded her at Kerguelen, after dropping anchor in a natural rock-girt harbour of that Isle of Desolation.

Captain Mayne Brace was himself in charge of the whaler which had brought them here, with Ingomar and Charlie; and now they were below in the sister-ship’s cosy saloon, and for a whole hour the conversation never lagged nor flagged.

Everybody was just as jolly as jolly could be, and Dr. Wright had scarcely a case on the sick-list worth talking about.

True that in hoisting the crow’s-nest a rope which had been dried at the galley-fire, and was somewhat scorched in one place, had snapped. The crow’s-nest was hurled to the deck again, but only one man had been injured.

There was no work done to-day. The mariners visited each other, and gave themselves up to enjoyment. When the music from a merry little string band was not sounding from the ’tween decks of the Sea Elephant, you could hear it distinctly enough swelling over the water from another merry little string band on board of the Walrus, and hear the shouting, and even the laughter, of the crew as well.

Now and then came the coughing roar of the great bears or the shrill but joyful barking of the dogs. Gruff couldn’t understand why he and his wife were not permitted to join the dancers on deck. But this might have been somewhat awkward for the sailors of the Elephant who were visiting the Walrus, for though King Gruff knew every one of his own crew, from the captain down to the ship’s cat, he might have treated strangers a trifle roughly. Those who have had the pleasure or pain of waltzing with a Polar bear on the Arctic ice, have been heard to admit afterwards that it is possible to find a much more gentle partner.

This first evening or night—for the days were now long and bright—was one that the crews of those barques would remember long after this under far more dreary circumstances.

But the letters? Ah, yes; a swift mail steamer had brought those to the capital of Mauritius Isle, and now they were handed over to the officers and crew of the Walrus. They nearly all brought joy and comfort.

Charlie’s and Walt’s were especially nice, and the same may be said of Ingomar’s letter from his father and sister.

The young fellow had written weeks before he had left England, and here were the answers. The sister’s letter was sweet, as sisters’ letters seem always to be; and the father’s—well, his son could read between the lines, and he felt certain that there had been tears in the good but proud old man’s eyes as he penned the following lines: “You are a brave boy, Hans. You are a true Armstrong, and it is just possible I may have been a trifle harsh to you. I would rather, however, you had not gone away, especially to the wild and treacherous seas around the Antarctic Pole. Come back to me, boy—I say come back to me, because I feel certain you will with honour. Come back to your sister and mother.”

“I’ll return with honour, dad,” said Ingomar to himself, as he folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. “I’ll come back to you with honour, or never return again. It is a handsome letter, and, father, you have a heart that I was cruel enough to vex and chafe. I’ll never part with this letter, for, ah! dad, it shows, however you try to hide it, that you have already forgiven your prodigal son.”

He looked very handsome as he stood there in his little cabin, to which he had stolen away to read the letters from home over again.

There was the rattle of oars in rowlocks, and he knew a boat from the Elephant was coming swinging alongside.

Then footsteps overhead, and presently entered his friend Lieutenant Curtis.

“Hillo, Armstrong!”

“Hillo, Curtis!”

They shook hands.

“There is going to be a council of war—war with the ice—to-morrow forenoon, and you and I have to be there. But meanwhile I want you to come for a cruise on shore to have a look at the birds.”

“I’m with you; and I suppose there will be room for the boys?”

“Lots. They can take an oar each. They are strong enough.”

The extreme dreariness and loneliness of these rugged, dark, and hilly shores during some months of the year can be better imagined than described.

Kerguelen was the first to discover the isle. He was a French admiral, but evidently he did not like the looks of it, and his examination must have been but cursory, for he made but one or two half-hearted attempts to examine the place, putting it down in his log as a portion of the great Antarctic continent, about which we have all heard so much.

But other brave mariners managed to put the world to rights, and so Kerguelen was found to be an island.

The rivalry that exists between all nations in the exploration of the great snow lands and seas of ice has done much good. We have most of us had a share in it, and so whether the first man to find either Pole be British or American, or even a Dane or Frenchman, no one else will begrudge him the honour.

No wonder that Kerguelen and Cook himself were glad to get clear away from this island, for the gales that rage around it are often terrific in the Southern autumn. The very appearance of the sky, too, is forbidding, with its awful rolling cumulus or its hues of leaden grey or inky black.

But it was November when the men of the Walrus rowed our heroes on shore, and the day happened to be calm and fine—hardly a breath of wind, hardly a cloudlet in all the firmament.

Now and then a seal’s great head would be raised above the smooth surface of the ocean, and round, wondering eyes would gaze thoughtfully on the wanderers, then slowly sink once more.

And there were gulls afloat on the water and gulls in the sky.

Cormorants could be seen, skuas, and now and then the lovely snow-white petrel.

Some of these had their nests on rocky cliffs, others on the more level shore, but the skuas preferred higher ground, and the droll and weird-looking king penguins had flocked to higher regions still, and formed crowded cities that they might build and converse in peace.

Young Curtis was a student of Nature, and had many other scientific attainments, which made him an excellent companion. There was no finding one’s self weary where Arnold was. The rocks, the birds, the fossils, the seaweeds, and medusæ, the fish, and the flora, all too rare or scarce, formed the subject of most fascinating conversation.

And this young and brave officer had already explored much of Kerguelen, and taken many observations which were bound to be useful in many branches of science. So to-day he was capable of acting as guide to the little picnic.

It was more than springtime in these latitudes. It wanted but little over a month till midsummer, so the birds were very busy indeed. The penguins were an especial study, and their droll ways amused the boys greatly.

“Arrant thieves, they are,” said Curtis. “They are at present too busy examining us. But if one sees a chance, he does not hesitate a moment to steal his neighbour’s eggs, and stick to them too.”

“It is a good thing,” said Ingomar, “we did not bring the dogs with us.”

“Yes, indeed, Hans. They would have caused much destruction and havoc.”

The men followed the officers, and brought bags of matting, in which to stow a few hundred eggs.

Birds’-nesting is sinful, but eggs are needed for food, and those of gulls and penguins are very nice eating indeed. The flesh of the birds may have a fishy taste, if the creatures have not been skinned, but the eggs have no bad taste whatever.

The females sat quietly on their nests, as fearless as frogs, and satisfied themselves with dabbing or pecking at the trousers or boots of the intruders. The cock penguins also take turn about with the hens to sit on the eggs, but at present they were not on watch. They lined the streets of this strange feather-land, and were always ready to fight if any one went too near them.

“Why are there so many birds down yonder on the water or flying about the rocks?” Walt asked.

“Oh,” replied Curtis, “that is a secret not known to all naturalists. Many of these birds are fishing for the rookery, or rather, for their own particular nest in it; but there are very many who choose not to enter into the holy bonds of matrimony at all, and great rogues and cheats these bachelors are, and seem to do their best, or rather worst, to annoy the more sober and staid married folks.

“And this is true,” he added, “of nearly all birds that congregate in colonies, and even of our own humble household British sparrow.”

After a most delightful luncheon, in which the eggs of the sea-birds figured largely, it was proposed by Curtis that they should re-embark, and, rowing round past a cape, visit a still undiscovered part of the island.

They had some difficulty in finding a landing-place, but managed to do so at last, and leaving two men with the boat, the others started off into the interior in search of adventures.

No wild beasts here, no savages, for the place is uninhabited. The hearts of our heroes were young, however; and although they journeyed quite six miles into the interior, through rugged ravines and ice-cold streams, without, of course, the vestige of a road, all were as happy as the day was going to be long.

They found many rare specimens of flora, some eggs, and a few fossils of long-extinct shells.

They were returning by what was considered a near cut, though the ground was higher and far rougher, when suddenly, on the brink of a ravine, the ground gave way under the feet of poor Curtis, and he suddenly disappeared into a kind of crevasse.

They could hear him shouting for a very short time, but his cries seemed to wax feebler and feebler, and then were heard no more.

What was to be done? To descend was impossible without a rope, and here there was none.

But Ingomar, as soon as he recovered somewhat from the grief and shock—for it was firmly believed that Curtis must be dead—despatched men back to the boat, to row in all haste to the ship and procure assistance.

This was, indeed, a sad calamity with which to wind up a very happy day.

While the men were gone, Ingomar and the boys did their very best to find some entrance on lower ground into the crevasse, but were altogether unsuccessful.

There was nothing to be done, therefore, but to wait.

Perhaps time had never seemed more long to any one than it now did to our heroes.

The sun went down at last in orange and crimson, his beams lighting up the waves with unusual splendour, but no one to-night could appreciate the scenery under such circumstances.

The men returned at length, and brought with them not only ropes, but even lanterns; for although there would be a long summer twilight, night would soon fall, and doubtless it would be dark enough at the bottom of the terrible chasm.

It was Ingomar himself who volunteered to be lowered down, and he would brook no contradiction. Was not Arnold Curtis his friend—a friend to whom somehow he had become peculiarly attached?

So the lantern was lighted, Ingomar placed his limbs in the bight of the rope, and immediately gave the order to lower away gently.

In a few seconds’ time he had sunk to the bottom of the abyss.

CHAPTER V

INGOMAR HIMSELF HAD A DREAM TO DREAM

The doctor, who had come back with the men, now made attempts to resuscitate his unfortunate patient. But for a long time he was unsuccessful. At last Arnold opened his eyes, and was presently able to swallow a little cordial, and even to talk a word or two, though very incoherently.

“There is no fracture,” said Dr. Wright, as the unfortunate lieutenant relapsed once more into insensibility. “Bear him to the boat most carefully, men, and we will follow.”

“No fracture, doctor. I’m so glad.”

Then Ingomar fainted. The strain had been too much for even his strong physique.

He was laid on his back, however, and soon revived. When fairly restored and able to take the road gently leaning on Charlie’s arm—

“I say, Charlie,” he said, “wasn’t it a blessing that I didn’t succumb when about halfway up the cliff?”

Ingomar was smiling, but the boy shuddered as he thought of the narrow escape of the first lieutenant and Hans Armstrong himself, the two principal men of the expedition. Had the dreadful accident occurred, and the bold rescuer been obliged to quit hold while being hauled to bank, it would have cast a gloom over all the hands which nothing could ever have dispelled.

I believe if people would only try to look upon the bright side of things in this world, they would always find something to be thankful for.

The captain’s cabin in the Sea Elephant was the largest and best in the ship. It was right aft, and there was a minimum of noise above it. This was at once apportioned to the lieutenant, who had not yet recovered sensibility.

Nor did he for three long days.

The shock to brain and system generally had been very great, and would have killed a less strong man. Even the loss of blood, so said Dr. Wright, had been in no way against his patient.

Ingomar constituted himself Arnold’s nurse, and a gentle and tender one he made, Charlie and Walt relieving him now and then.

Meanwhile, good work was being done on shore. Not only were observations both by night and day taken, and surveys made and soundings ascertained, but the sailors were now busy in the erection of a stone house or cabin, which was to be the abode of five men and an officer for probably a whole year—their home, indeed; and a more dreary one than this it would be impossible to conceive, especially throughout the long and terrible winter. They were to have the companionship of two of the best dogs, plenty of provisions, and everything likely to conduce to their comfort, with books to read, and even games to while away the time. Moreover, they would be engaged every day in taking observations, for the advancement of science, for every little aids; but, nevertheless, it would be—

One evening Dr. Wright came into the saloon or mess-place.

He was looking sad.

“Has a change come?” said the captain.

“I fear so,” said Wright.

“Then we need not ask what it is?”

“No; I fear my patient is sinking, although, mind you, even yet there is hope.”

It was one of those still nights which we find in these far Southern climes, when the stars shine clear and bright above, and are reflected from the dark, smooth sea, when, in the middle watch, hardly a sound is to be heard except the gentle lapping of the water around the stern, a sound that often resembles the talking of people in low, subdued monotones, only that and the solemn far-off boom of the waves breaking drowsily on the rugged rocks and shore.

Wright had given Ingomar his last instructions, and left him sitting quietly by the cotside, Arnold’s favourite Eskimo dog near his feet, for the faithful beast could seldom be prevailed upon to leave the cabin or even to touch a morsel of food.

Presently, and most unexpectedly, the patient breathed a sigh, and opened his eyes. Ingomar was standing over him in a moment with his finger on his pulse.

That pulse was flickering and uncertain, but it seemed stronger; but well did Hans know that these signs might be but the forerunner of death and darkness.

A spoonful of cordial was held to the poor fellow’s lips, and this he swallowed.

“Have—have I—been long ill? How——”

Ingomar smiled, but shook his head.

“Don’t speak just yet awhile,” he half whispered. “You have been ill, but now I think you will recover. Be of good cheer. I’ll go for the doctor now.”

When he returned with Wright, Ruby the dog was sitting by the bed with his cheek resting softly on his master’s hand.

It was such a pretty show of affection that Ingomar would not disturb him.

Not long after this Curtis had fallen into a gentle sleep, and his nurse had resumed his watch.

The change, the happy change, had come during that sleep, the clogged wheels of life were once more moving steadily round, and when the doctor again entered the cabin, he pronounced him out of danger.

It was not until next night, however, and in the stillness of a night just like its predecessor, that the patient was allowed to talk a little, for Dr. Wright’s orders were very peremptory, and were being carried out to the letter.

“Hans Armstrong,” said Curtis, quietly, “you may tell me all.”

Hans did so.

“And you saved my life?”

“That is little credit to me, Arnold. Some one else would have done so had I not.”

“But it is a credit to you. I have reason to love the name of Armstrong; it will be a name dearer to me now than ever.

“But, Hans, when I am strong enough I am going to return to that crevasse, and descend.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed, for there I must have dropped a gold locket, which contained a portrait of the girl I love.”

Ingomar smiled.

“Keep your mind easy,” he said. “I found the locket, and here it is. I did not open it—I deemed it sacred.”

“Oh, thanks! thanks!” he cried, taking the trinket, and with somewhat shaky hands succeeding in opening it.

Probably one glance at the sweet face it contained did as much to place the patient out of danger as days of nursing.

“Look, Hans—look for yourself. Is she not beautiful?”

No wonder that Ingomar started as he looked upon it, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

“Why—why——” he said.

“Yes, Hans, a portrait of my Marie.”

“Nay, but my Marie—my sister Marie.”

“Thank God,” murmured Curtis.

He did not speak again for several seconds.

“I say thank God, Hans, for this reason. Ever since we met I have been struck by the strange likeness there is between you and Marie; and being of the same name, I could not help thinking that you might be some near relative—a cousin, and perhaps a lover. My mind is now relieved, and I shall get speedily well.”

“But still I am puzzled. Where did you meet poor Marie?”

“I met her at a ball in New York. I think, Hans, it was love at first sight. It was so with me, at all events. And though we have known each other for but a very short time, it seems as if we had been acquainted for years.”

Ingomar was deep in thought.

“Did she speak of father and mother, and—of me?”

“She often talked of her father and mother, Hans, but seldom of you. She grew so sad when she mentioned you, and it was always as ‘poor brother who is dead and gone.’ And now, Hans, are we still as good friends?”

“Here is my hand, Arnold. It is a brother’s hand; I shall live in hopes of sister Marie and you being happy—some day. But how strange we should have met, and that I should have saved your life!”

“I care little for life save for her.”

“True, Arne; I have felt like that myself before now, when in love with Cheena, the daughter of an Indian backwood chief.”

“Some day, Hans, you will tell me that story. But, Hans, there is something I still have on my mind; and if I unburden myself to you, I shall be in a fair way to happiness.”

“Here,” said Ingomar, “drink this first. I fear I am leading you into too much talk.”

Arnold did as he was told, then continued—

“It was after I knew your sister, and after we loved each other, that I found out your father was very wealthy, and that she would one day be so. This discovery made me very unhappy. Though I myself am connected with the peerage, my family are poor at present. I knew Marie would not believe I was trying to woo her for her wealth. Heavens! she would be rich had she not a single sou; but her father might object. And so I told her all.”

“And did it make any difference?”

“To Marie not the slightest. But to me it did. I was determined she should not bind herself to a roving sailor like myself. It was in grief and sorrow, ay, and in tears, that we parted. I had heard that one or two expeditions were bound for the Antarctic, and I determined to join. I have done so, and I feel it is for the best. If I die—well, all will be over. If, during the years of enforced absence in these seas, Marie forgets me—well, all will be over just the same, and I still can pray for her happiness should I never see her more.”

“But,” said Ingomar, “suppose she does not forget you?”

“Ah! then,” said Arne, with a faint smile, “I may still dare to hope. This hope, dear Hans, I have. It is this hope that makes me live again, and this hope that I will cherish whatever happens.”

Once more he clasped Hans’ hand, and, still clasping it, fell into a gentle sleep. Ingomar now spread a rug over his knees, and went to sleep in Captain Bell’s easy-chair.

For Ingomar himself had a dream to dream.

CHAPTER VI

“TO THE WEST, TO THE WEST”

Perhaps they might meet halfway round on the high seas. Anyhow—if all turned out well—they hoped once more to unite their forces at Kerguelen, and thence bear up for the pole itself, or, at all events, get South as far as possible.

This had not been the first intention of the expedition, but the officers thereof were, of course, right in altering their plans.

But what about the bears, and dogs, and the Eskimos themselves?

This was a matter for serious consideration. It was true that there was food enough for all on board the Walrus, and that during explorations, surveyings, and observation-taking all along the line of route, they would be able to catch enough fish to keep the bears and Yak dogs in good health and condition.

“With all my love for the creatures we are so fond of calling the lower animals,” said Captain Mayne Brace, “I must admit that bears and Yak dogs are not the very best shipmates one can possess. What say you, Mr. Milton?”

“No, sir; we found that out in bringing the beggars home. A bear doesn’t sleep so sweetly as a well-cared-for baby. Gruff is apt to wake at night to cough or yawn, and when he does so he wakes his wife, and she coughs or yawns; then the dogs join, and bedlam isn’t a circumstance to the row they make.”

“Well, now,” continued Brace, “I have a question to put. Why shouldn’t we leave them all here on Kerguelen till our return?”

“Why,” cried Captain Bell, “that is a splendid idea of yours. The Yak-Yaks can build their own shelters, and feed and look after the whole pack. Are you agreeable to that proposal, Mr. Armstrong?”

“Oh, quite. In fact, Captain Bell, the bears and dogs are not the best companions; their voices are hardly melodious enough to conduce to sleep, and they are like Artemus Ward’s elephants—they are powerful eaters. So I agree.”

And all agreed. And as soon as everything was got ready on shore, both Eskimos and animals were landed; and then the two ships bade each other farewell, and each steamed away on her own track.

It will thus be seen that both vessels would sail round the world, and each would make different observations and explorations.

But for the present, at all events, we must sail away in the Walrus.

Strangely enough, for the first few days the men actually missed the bears and dogs.

Dumpty himself, who was very fond of Gruff and even Growley, used to stand staring in at the empty cage for a quarter of an hour at a time, and openly declared that he couldn’t sleep half so well now the dear old chaps were gone; and many of the crew also thought the change was not one for the better. However, that remained to be seen.

I must remind the reader just here that, though neither Charlie nor Walter was bound apprentice, they were, nevertheless, already good sailors, and that, moreover, they determined to adopt the sea as a profession eventually. They now tried, therefore, to learn all they could, and were not too proud or lazy to help on deck, and even take their trick at the wheel.

This latter is hard work and weary, especially when the thermometer is at or below zero, a high wind blowing, and when your mittens get frozen to the spokes. It is bad enough in tropical seas, with the sun beating down almost vertically on one’s head, the waves all aglitter with light and heat, and the pitch a-boil between the planks of the quarter-deck. And yet—having done both—I much prefer the heat to the excessive cold of Polar seas when steering.

Whenever time permitted, the boys now sought the companionship of Ingomar. He was a treasure, to their way of thinking. There was no feeling lonely when he was there, whether it were treading the decks by day or listening to his stories and talk at eventide.

Where he had picked up all his knowledge was a puzzle to both lads, and his yarns, at all events, bore an exceedingly strong resemblance to the truth.

There was plenty of music on board, and besides this, almost every one could sing a bit. Before leaving Kerguelen the dogs generally began to sing when the band began to play. The bandsmen could now play in peace, and there was no Gruff nor Grumpey to imitate the trombone. Wallace the collie was far too much of a gentleman to interrupt. Well, there were games of all sorts to go in for in fine weather, and when the storms raged and stormy winds blew, they could read and yarn.

Perhaps the Walrus was not so well found in food and drinkables as an Atlantic liner. Yet there was enough, and everything was of the best.

What more could heart of sailor desire?

I think, though, that Ingomar, who remained in the Walrus, would have been glad if his friend Curtis had made one of the crew of this ship.

One word from the American and the transference would have been accomplished; but he did not speak that word. It would, he thought, look as if he, being the owner of the ships, were interfering with the arrangements thereof.

“Perhaps, after all,” he said to himself, “it is better as it is. We don’t know what may transpire yet. Arnold does not look a bit too strong, and—well, I should not like to see him sink and die.”

* * * * *

“Right gaily goes a ship when the wind blows free.” Thus sing some sailor lads.

And the wind did blow free, and fast also, some few days after the two discovery vessels parted company.

Not with the force of a gale, however, but that of a strong breeze, almost like a joyous trade wind, that filled the white and flowing sail and bent the gallant masts. This is perhaps a trifle too figurative, for the masts of ships like these would take a deal of wind before they bent, and when they did so, they would probably break. Of course the Walrus was not in low enough latitudes to catch the regular or trade winds.

These, it will do you, reader, no harm to know, are really north winds and south winds, that seem out of their course by the motion of the earth in its revolution. In the north of the equator, and its belts of calm and variable winds, and extending from about 10° N. lat. to about 30° N., we have the N.E. trades; and south of the equatorial belt we get, as you would naturally expect, the S.E. trades.

That is near enough for most landsmen to know. If, however, you ask why the winds blow towards the equator, I need only tell you that Nature abhors a vacuum. Well, along the great hot regions round the earth’s waist you have such a vacuum, because heated air always ascends, and winds rush in from both sides to fill it up.

The winds far south of the trades have often, in summer particularly, a northerly direction, because the ocean is here warmer than the ice. But these are very variable.

On the whole, perhaps, the study of the winds is best left to the meteorologist.

A single glance at a map of the Antarctic will show any one what a vast stretch of lonesome ocean there is betwixt Kerguelen and Tierra del Fuego, which is the lowest land of the great South American continent.

The wind to the Walrus, and to the Sea Elephant as well, would be ever welcome, unless it came in the somewhat questionable shape of a hurricane, because they must steam just as little as possible. The Elephant, it is true, had more than filled up at Mauritius. In fact, she had arrived at Kerguelen a bumper ship, with coals, coals everywhere, and these she had shared with the Walrus.

More than this, in the Sea Elephant’s passage back to Kerguelen, she would probably call at the Cape to coal up again—or somewhere else; and, indeed, in a voyage such as this, a good deal has to be left to what is termed blind chance, though be assured chance never is or was blind—every wind and every current of the ocean is but obeying inexorable laws in blowing or flowing whither it does.

* * * * *

Navigation, nowadays, is so strange and difficult a study to a mere outsider, or ’longshoreman, that although told that the Walrus was bearing up for the Crozet Islands, and although they could easily position these on the map or chart, and knew therefore that they lay to the nor’ard and west of Kerguelen, Charlie and Walt were considerably puzzled when they looked at the compass to see which way the ship’s head was.

“We seem to be going a bit zigzag, don’t we, Charlie, old man?” said Walt to his companion one fine forenoon.

“I thought so too, Walt; but I suppose we’ll get there all the same. Come along. Don’t puzzle your head; the dogs want a scamper, and luckily we’re off duty.”

Everybody was dressed in extra clothing now, and this added considerably to everybody’s breadth of beam, but especially, apparently, to Dumpty’s. He was, indeed, a curious figure; and the Newfoundlands and ship’s collie all seemed to know there was something rather ridiculous about his build, and were never tired getting some fun out of him.

Dumpty had been throwing a wooden belaying-pin along the decks to-day, that the wise animals might have exercise. And this was a species of exercise they appeared to enjoy as much as a young man does football.

Collie himself was nearly always first in the field or first to rush after and catch the belaying-pin. But unless he changed ground, or rather deck, and tried to get to Dumpty—who stood for goal—from the other side, he was rolled over, and had speedily to give up his prize, and fall back upon barking to relieve his mind.

But this forenoon they had varied the performance a bit, at a suggestion from big, beautiful Nick himself.

“Come on, Dumpty,” Nick seemed to cry. “You are better than a thousand belaying-pins. Hurrah!”

So he sprang at the droll little man, and down he went.

The two great dogs rolled Dumpty round and round, and over and over along the deck, in the funniest way possible, and with their paws, too, though whenever there was a hitch, Collie gave them a little assistance by seizing Dumpty’s jacket, and hauling him a yard or two.

In this way they rolled him to goal, which to-day was the quarter-deck.

Here they met the boys, and Nick and Nora were constrained to stand up to smile and gasp. This gave Dumpty a chance of escaping to the rigging, and then Charlie and Walter came in for it.

They did not “down” them; but while Nick sprang up and seized Charlie’s cap, Nora did the same for Walt, and then came the grand scamper round and round the decks, four yards of solid Newfoundland and forty inches of collie.

The boys could do nothing but look on and laugh, till, tiring at last, the dear old dogs marched solemnly up and deposited their caps—unmarked by teeth—at their feet.

“Couldn’t really help it,” said Nick, apologetically, speaking with eyes and tail.

“And I only did what Nick did,” said Nora, saucily.

The fiddles were hardly ever off the table now, for the sea, if not actually rough, was a bit lumpy, and there was plenty of motion. Hot soup is very nice and nourishing for a sailor’s inside, but when a roll of the ship spills it all into his lap, it is not quite so pleasant.

Charlie, I think, was the better sailor, and though Walt often ventured into the crow’s-nest, he was generally glad enough to get down again. The crow’s-nest swung so, he explained. Well, it is not a very easy job to get there, as it is a cask with a railing at top, hoisted to and fixed but a little way under the main-truck. But no rigging leads right up to it, so you have to squirm up a Jacob’s ladder from the main-top cross-trees, and to do this you must go quarter-way round the mast. This tries the head of a landsman, I can assure you. Most landsmen who had never been on horseback before, would rather make up their minds to ride a buck-jumper than attempt to reach this same crow’s-nest when there is a bit of seaway on, were it never so little.

It isn’t fun—the first day—reaching even to the cross-trees. Then, having run the risk of your life—not being a Blondin—and gained a footing on the lower rungs of the Jacob’s ladder, you cannot help wondering as you scramble up, hanging back downwards half the time, if it will give way with your weight, and which would be the easier way, when you do fall, to meet death—getting smashed up on the ship’s bulwarks or being plunged headlong into the cold sea.

You enter through a trap-hole at the bottom, and though you may feel safe for just a little while, evil, discomforting thoughts return, and you cannot be quite certain whether or not the crow’s-nest is properly secured, or whether, if the wind begins to blow, you won’t be emptied out altogether.

And then comes the going down again. You must not look below, or you may lose your head altogether. Just shut your eyes and open the trap, slue round after that, and make sure of your footing, then cautiously, foot over foot, you may reach the rigging, and afterwards the deck.

In cold weather a spell in the nest is really a terrible experience.

Yet Charlie never feared to face it, any more than he would have funked a ride in a motor car against the wind on a stormy day.

But when one has got acclimatized to the crow’s-nest, it is a real pleasure to be in it, and to have an eye on the sea and the cloudscape. There are splendid telescopes kept up here, and it is always nice to be the first to sight a craft of any kind, with only her topmasts rising over the far-off horizon.

It was Charlie who had the luck to first discover the Crozet Islands, and bleak and dismal they did look, for, this being summer, there was no snow on the rocks, but with his fine sight he could distinguish birds in myriads.

He felt quite a man, too, when he hailed the quarter-deck, trying to imitate the hoarse shout of the bo’s’n’s mate with his ringing—

“Below there!”

“Ay, ay, sir,” sang up the officer of the watch, putting particular emphasis on the “sir,” more for fun, I think, than anything else.

“Thank you,” said Captain Mayne Brace. “How does it lie?”

“About two points on the weather bow.”

This was so nautical that the boy had to take a long breath after it, and wind himself up as it were.

But the hail, anyhow, although it had had the effect of making even the man at the wheel smile a little, produced no little excitement on board, and more than one camera was got ready to take snapshots at the shore as soon as it put in an appearance from the deck.

CHAPTER VII

A FEARFUL NIGHT—ANTARCTIC LAND-ICE

As often as not, these islands or islets are enveloped in rain-clouds, snow-clouds, or fog, the wildest of waves wash their rocky shores, and it can hardly be said that there is a green thing upon them. But the birds love them all the same, and find sustenance in the nesting season in various kinds of algæ or seaweeds, and in the shrimps with which the sea abounds.

A boat or two was lowered, and a landing-place found, and, as usual, observations and soundings were taken. The glass remained high, and there was every prospect of fine weather for a day or two at least, so sea-fishing was gone into with some success, eggs were collected, and made a valuable addition to the larder.

Then the voyage was continued, and the Walrus made in the direction of Marion Island, one of the Prince Edward group, lying in the same latitude.

The wind continued fair for a week, but somewhat ahead.

Then one afternoon it blew a little warmer, and veered more to the north.

“I fear we’re in for a blow,” said Captain Mayne Brace’s acting mate. “Weather looks very dirty, sir, all about. Horizon creeping nearer, wind coming in nasty puffs, sea with a swell on it, and a falling glass, and——”

“That’s enough, mate; take in sail and reef. Just make her fit to encounter anything; and, I say”—the mate had touched his cap and was retiring—“I think we might as well have fires ready to light, in case, you know.”

“Ay, ay, sir. Thank you.”

“Going to be bad weather, captain?” said Ingomar, entering the saloon just then.

“Not sure. Nothing is certain in these seas. It is dark enough to have the lights turned on, but that makes things look gloomy when one goes on deck.”

“Yes; and the sudden transition from bright light to comparative darkness is certainly somewhat depressing.”

“Anyhow, boys all, there’s two things I don’t mean to do, and one I’ve made up my mind to. I’m not going to be blown back if I can help it; I’m not going to waste my precious coals so as to have to burn the bulkheads in an emergency; and if the wind doesn’t go with me, why, I’ll go with the wind.”

“Hurrah!” cried Ingomar. “That is capital policy all through.”

The boys clapped their hands, because it occurred to them that it was the best thing to do.

Everything was conducted during this voyage with the greatest regularity. The very same precautions as to lights was taken at night—though small, indeed, was the likelihood of a ship being met—as would have been observed in steering up or down our own English Channel. There were three watches, so that, in these inclement seas, the men might not suffer from fatigue; the temperature of the water and air had to be taken each watch; the sky and clouds observed, and the force of the wind marked, etc., and all was logged. Notes were taken even of the appearance of seals or whales, the flight of birds, the colour of the sea and floating seaweed. One well-kept log of a voyage is of great use to future mariners who sail the same seas; from many logs so kept, are deduced about all that science knows of winds and seas and ocean currents.

In a few minutes after the mate had gone on deck, the ship seemed to stop suddenly short, to stand suddenly still, and the sails began to flap uncertainly. There was much confusion now on deck, and slacking off of sheets and shouting of orders, for the mate knew not from which side the wind would come next.

Then there was a vivid flash of lightning, which almost blinded the eyes of those below. Another and another followed quickly, and were succeeded by louder thunder than most people ever listen to.

Then the wind!

The shifting, ever shifting wind! For the Walrus was in a little cyclone. Certainly not little as regarded force, but still in extent small enough to be called a whirlwind. Yet such whirlwinds as these are strong enough to sink any ship that ever sailed if not most carefully handled.

There was another circular squall after this, then a third and fourth, and lo! the steady gale came on in earnest, blowing terrifically from the N.N.W.

Now God save the good ship in the darkness of such an awful night as this!

For the wind brought with it its own waves, its own cold spray, its own wild showers of driving rain and sleet and hail combined. It brought something worse—it brought streams of small ice-blocks, and streams of deep snowy slush, passing through which the ship was strangely steady, because never a green sea rolled on board.

It is just on such a night as this long and terrible one that, with the horizon a mere background of blackness to the dimly lighted bulwarks, a wind that shrieks and howls like wild wolves, a wind that even head down one cannot face, but must creep side first against, clutching at rope or stay, and gasping as if engulphed in the dark cold water just beyond; it is on just such a night as this, I say, that the mariner in these far Southern seas, having taken in every bit of canvas he can spare, and done his best for his good ship from bowsprit to glimmering binnacle, must place his trust in Providence, feeling that he is in the hands of Him who can hold the ocean in His palm, and bring him safely through the danger.

The captain himself did not come below until the beginning of the middle watch. He was wet and shiny in his oilskins and sou’wester.

Ingomar had turned in.

The boys had not undressed, but had lain down to talk fearfully, just in front of the stove, with the dogs their only companions.

They had been especially terrified by the loud rattling of some sails that had carried away while the gale was still at hurricane force.

“What! not in bed yet, lads?”

“No,” said Charlie. “Fact is, sir, I’d rather be drowned with my clothes on, and Walt here thinks the same.”

Mayne Brace laughed.

“I can’t blame you, though. I was once young myself. But bustle now, boys; find your way into the pantry, switch on the light, and see what you can find to eat.”

This was very cheering language, not only because they knew that the captain would not think of having supper, if he thought the ship was going down an hour or so after, but because they themselves were hungry enough to swallow an octopus.

An exciting night of storm has always that effect on the seafarer.

Charlie with the cold beef, Walter with sardines, onions, bread, and butter, soon staggered out of the pantry again, and as speedily returned for knives and forks, and plates, and cruets, and dainty sauces.

There was hot coffee in an urn over the stove, and preserved meat; and what a glorious supper they did make to be sure! You would not have said that there was a deal of funk about those boys’ hearts had you seen them ply their knives and forks. But the funniest thing about the matter was this—hardly had they got settled down to serious eating before a state-room door opened, and lo! behold Ingomar in the robes of night (pyjamas) standing swaying and smiling, and holding fast to the bulkhead.

“I’ll join you, if you please,” said Ingomar.

And he did with a hearty good will too. The dogs, of course, partook of the banquet.

The boys felt happy and a bit drowsy after this, and turned in.

Storm still raging next morning. Uncomfortable motion. Wind still more to the north, and ship lying-to almost under bare poles.

And so it blew and blew on and off for well-nigh a week.

Then surcease of a storm and tempest, such as it is the experience of but few to face at this season of the year in these lower latitudes.

And where were they now? Why, still in the longitude or meridian of the Crozet Islands, but, despite their well-conducted war with the elements, several degrees further south. In very truth, they might just as well have sailed here to Enderby Land straight from Kerguelen.

Everybody was pleased one beautiful morning to find that wind and sea had both gone down. It was nice to sit down to a warm and comfortable breakfast, without fear of having the lower extremities parboiled with hot coffee.

The boys had had their sea-water bath this morning early at wash-decks time. This consisted simply in rushing forward, jumping, and skylarking like white savages, and having the hose played on them. But it made them hungry.

Forward, the men’s talk was chiefly about the recent heavy weather.

“Joy to you, Jack,” said Dumpty to a companion, “but this doesn’t seem much like getting round the globe, do it?”

“It don’t, Dumpty, and that’s a fact,” was the reply. “But it’s all in the voyage, little ’un, and the more months the more cash, and that’s how I looks at it.”

The captain’s face and Ingomar’s too were wreathed in smiles as they sat down to the good things sent forward.

“Seems,” said the former, “we’re going to go zigzagging round the world.”

“Yes. Going to resume your course now?”

“No; the wind brought us here. I’ll forego the Marions now, and bear up for the Boukets and Lindsays, weather permitting; but not until we now have a look at the country the storm has been unkindly enough to drive us to nolentes volentes.”

“I wonder where the Sea Elephant is about this time?”

“Ah, it would be hard to say, but the gale that we encountered, if it has passed far on to the east, would have been more favourable for them, and they are now in open seas off Budd or even Knox Land. They’ll beat us in the race round the world, you’ll find.”

Every one had the greatest faith in the sturdy old Walrus, for icebergs to her were nothing, so long as she did not get into a powerful squeeze.

The “ice blink,” a reflection like snow on the horizon over the pack, was seen that forenoon early, and Mayne Brace headed away directly for it. He judged himself to be about the longitude of Cape Anne, and he was right.

Young sailors like Charlie and Walt wondered a little that they did not sooner come into fields of slush and streams of smaller ice, that of broken-up floes and hummocks.

“The reason is simply this, boys,” said the skipper. “That kind of stuff has all been hurled back to the edge of the pack on the main barrier of ice by the force of the northerly wind.

“This land-ice is quite different,” he continued, “from any you have ever encountered in the North Pole regions. Our earlier navigators in their tubs of ships sighted it, and some of them sailed along its edge for hundreds of miles; and as they could find no inlet before they were driven off by storms, they jumped to the conclusion that this great barrier, this solid, cliff-like wall of blue or green or striated ice, hundreds of feet in height at some places, went all around the Antarctic, warning them that thus far might they come but no farther.”

“But what, then,” said Charlie, “do you mean by land-ice? I’m all in a fog.”

“Well, lad, you must first imagine a time in the remote ages when this great unknown Antarctic continent was a land of mountain, forest, and flood, with rivers finding their way down very extensive valleys to pour their bright waters into the sea. Imagine, too, if you please, that these beautiful valleys were in ages far remote from ours clad in verdure, in jungle, heath, and forest, and that a fauna distinct from ours existed here, that immense mammoths and mastodons dwelt here, and mayhap flying alligators, though probably no other creature at all bearing any resemblance to the form of human beings.

“Then let this age pass out of your mind, and another and colder period slowly commence—a glacial period, for instance, during which the rivers and lakes were frozen, and there was no more rainfall, because the mists or dews driven over yonder continent were then condensed, and fell as snow. The long storms of winter would soften and the snows melt somewhat during the Antarctic summer, to form ice again when the dark, wild weather returned. So the valleys would be partially filled up with great glaciers. These must move down towards the sea, though extremely slowly—broad Mississippis of ice and snow. When this so-called land-ice reached the water, it would form a barrier, and monster bergs would get detached and float away, leaving the striated cliffs with their wave-washed caves at the edge. In the gigantic, snow-covered, square blocks that float away on the currents of ocean, these caves form archways, so that you can sometimes see right through the bergs, or even sail a boat through them.

“Well, that is land-ice, but the sea-ice is formed of something like the same pancake and hummocky ice we find in the far, far north, and the peculiarity of the Antarctic seas of ice is this—the land-bergs, if I may so call them, often get embedded or entangled in pack-ice, high above which their great bulk heaves, as towers a ship of battle above a tugboat or dinghy. In course of time the land-bergs are hollowed and tunnelled by the waves on which they float, till they break-up, or divide, forming the strangest-shaped pieces imaginable.