It was difficult to believe that I stood a fighting chance of being chosen as one of that band of gallant adventurers bound for the Frozen South. Hope ran high when it was made known to me that I was among the ten candidates who were to be inspected by Sir Ernest Shackleton; but, even so, my heart misgave me. True enough, we ten had been weeded out of thousands who had applied, in response to the wide appeal published in the early summer of 1921, for volunteer Scouts to accompany the famous explorer on what promised to be an ideal adventure; but that such good fortune as came would be mine was wellnigh incredible.

Yet the miracle happened. A dream grew into reality. Together with Scout Norman E. Mooney, of the Orkney Islands, I was selected as one of the crew of that famous Quest which, driven by the compelling determination of Sir Ernest Shackleton, was to attempt to penetrate the Antarctic fastnesses, and to explore not only those icy wastes, but also certain little-known islands in the sub-Antarctic seas.

Imagine how my heart leaped when the news was told! Here was romance personified. I think that any youth of my age would have felt with me that all the adventure books ever written were but tame affairs as compared with what the future promised. We were to follow in the footsteps of brave men who had dared much; of men who had died because of their love of perilous adventure. Anything might happen; imagination filled in the coming years with pictures that set the mind alive with delight.

Oh, yes, it was good to be young and ambitious—and chosen! The doors were to be closed for indefinite years on England—commonplace England, as I thought it then—and our ship was to bear us, high of heart, clear across the threshold of adventure.

Often and often had I thought how splendid it would be to visit those wastes of snow and ice and furious seas. Like every other healthy British lad, the hot blood of desire to achieve ran in my veins. And here were my biggest dreams coming true. Fill in the blanks for yourselves.

I was glad to think that my lot was to be cast amongst such tried and proven men as Sir Ernest Shackleton and Mr. Frank Wild. Every boy has his private heroes. Shackleton was one of mine. Moreover, I, a landsman, was to learn the craft of the sea, and under the most fascinating circumstances imaginable. I thought of Drake, Hawkins and all those hardy adventurers of the past. I was one of them!

My first meeting with Sir Ernest Shackleton did nothing to lessen my enthusiasm, for he satisfied my imagination most completely. Here was a man to be followed anywhere—everywhere; a man whom it would be a great thing to serve. A tall, broad man, with a strong, determined mouth, a man whose smile gave confidence, whose voice seemed always to be laughing at danger. A full-sized man, judged by any standard, though his great shoulders carried a just perceptible bend, as token of the heavy burden laid upon him by his gallant struggles and endeavours of former years.

Naturally enough, when face to face with him this first time, I had little to say. But he possessed the ability to size one up almost at a glance.

“Why do you want to go?” he asked crisply.

“I want to do something,” I said. It was a period when every right-thinking boy felt he must do something to be worthy of the sacrifices of Britain’s dead in the recently ended war. I wanted to say all this, yet words failed to come; but Shackleton read right enough and smiled. I was chosen, and even to this day I cannot understand why. My lucky star had climbed into the zenith, I suppose.

There is really no need for me to record that I counted myself the luckiest fellow on earth, nor to declare how strenuously I vowed myself to loyal and helpful performance of all such duties as should come my way. I wanted to be worthy of my companions. Here were men who had flocked to a well-loved leader’s standard from all the ends of the earth; and I was chosen to stand beside them!

Once the decision was made, the days were full of anticipation. They seemed tedious and endless, because, being committed, I wanted to tread the Quest’s planking and feel that it was all really true. There were so many things that might happen, so many chances of misadventure. However, fortune stood my friend; the appointed hour arrived. Not that those final farewells to loving friends were pleasant, but high resolve made light of them. Others had dared the long out trail that’s everlastingly new; and homesickness is no fatal disease.

Nevertheless, let me be honest and say that my first sight of the Quest somewhat tarnished the gilt of the gingerbread. She seemed so very tiny to be destined for so great an adventure—merely a minnow amongst whales compared with other craft. Still, I doubt if any power on earth could have tempted me to draw back.

Mooney and I joined ship on September 15, 1921, and I was allotted a bunk in the little mess-room in the ship’s after-end. Cramped quarters enough, make no mistake on that head. The Quest was no leviathan, and personal comfort was a thing that seemed to have been left out of her controller’s calculations. So much for first impressions. If I had had previous sea experience I might, at that first glance, have counted my quarters almost luxurious. For in addition to the actual sleeping-place, at least as roomy as a coffin, I was granted a locker beneath for clothes and a shelf for the careful stowing of trifling personal belongings. This was my stateroom de luxe. At first it seemed so tiny, so stuffy, so generally uncomfortable, that I wondered how any human being, not to mention a well-grown youth of my proportion, could exist there; but the time was to come when I should consider this corner of a seagoing ship the most desirable spot in all the world for my seagoing requirements, and count the minutes until I was able to fling myself full-length into that seven-by-two sleeping shelf to sink into the dreamless slumber that rewards hard toil.

Aboard a Polar exploration ship there is scant room for luxury. Every available inch of space must needs be crammed with gear that is to further the expedition’s interests. The human side of things is apt to be lost sight of by those who have the greater vision, and who understand, as our leader understood, the amazing adaptability of mankind.

Not that Mooney and myself were called upon at once to “render down” into these cramped quarters. Probably with an idea of tempering the wind to the shorn lamb, Mr. John Quiller Rowett, who, by reason of his personal admiration for Sir Ernest Shackleton, was responsible for financing the expedition, took us under his comforting wing and gave us a great time at his Sussex home, Ely Place, Frant.

In my opinion Mr. Rowett deserves a high place in the records of Polar exploration. The bravest adventurers imaginable cannot fare forth in quest of the unknown without monetary backing; born adventurers, by reason of their very indomitableness, seldom have sufficient capital to finance their expeditions. If the Quest was to be a cannon ball designed to thrust herself into the frozen fastnesses of the South, Mr. Rowett unquestionably supplied the powder that fired her on that lengthy journey. Expecting nothing in return for his very considerable outlay, satisfied to know that he was helping a courageous man towards the realization of his ambition, Mr. Rowett cheerfully provided the major part of the funds for this, Shackleton’s last adventure, out of considerations of personal friendship for our leader and in the general interests of scientific research.