Our progress southward was hurried. We had touched at Charleston for a full supply of coal, but we were sailing under canvas only. It was still bleak winter below Cape Horn, and we did not wish to enter those somber seas before November, the beginning of the Antarctic spring.

Sometimes Edith Gale and I drew steamer chairs to the extreme bow of the boat, and looking away to the horizon, imagined the land of our quest lying just beyond. At night, from this point, we watched the new constellations of the tropics rising from the sea, and those of the North falling back, behind us.

Chauncey Gale and Ferratoni frequently joined us, and at times I was constrained through courtesy to leave Ferratoni and Edith Gale together. Perhaps it was not quite wise—the stars and sea form a dangerous combination to a man like Ferratoni.

After one such evening I was taking a morning constitutional on the deck forward when I saw a female figure emerge from the cabin. Edith Gale had often joined me in these walks, but it was not she. Neither was it our stewardess—a brawny, non-committal Scotch woman, of whom Mr. Sturritt, though her superior in rank, stood in wholesome awe. It proved to be Miss Gale’s maid and former nurse, the stout colored woman, Zarelda, or Zar, as she was commonly called. Miss Gale had long since told me of some of the peculiar sayings and eccentricities of this privileged person, but thus far my interest in her had been rather casual. Now, however, she planted herself at one end of my promenade and sternly faced my approach. I bade her a respectful and even engaging “good morning” as I came on, but the severity of her features did not relax. She nodded ominously, and proceeded to open fire.

“Look heah,” she demanded, “I wan’ know wheah you gwine wid dis ship?”

“Why, down to the Antarctics,” I said winningly. “I thought everybody knew that.”

I felt a sense of relief in being able to answer so readily. It seemed I was not quite through, however.

“Yes, down to Aunt Ar’tics!” she snorted, “I should say down to Aunt Ar’tics! I like to know whose kinfolks dat Aunt Ar’tics is, anyway! I ain’ nevah heard o’ none o’ Mistah Gale’s people by dat name, an’ if she some o’ yo’ po’ relation, I don’ see what foh we-all mus’ go trailin’ off down to de mos’ Godforlonesomest spot on dis earth, to visit in de dead o’ wintah. An’ what my Miss Edith goin’ foh, anyway? What my Miss Edith got to do wid yo’ old Aunt Ar’tics, dat’s what I wan’ to know? Humph! moah antics dan Ar’tics—dat’s what I think!”

My emotions during this assault had been rather conflicting, but I managed to maintain a proper degree of calmness.

“Why,” I said gravely, “this ‘Antarctics’ bears a relationship to us all—to the whole world, in fact.”

I rather prided myself on the cleverness of this rejoinder, but it appeared after all to have been rather poorly thought out.

“Dat’s enough! Dat settles it,” she exploded. “Now I know mighty well dey ain’ no sech pussun. Kinfolks to de whole worl’. Look heah, me an’ my Miss Edith has jes’ been deceptified long enough! I know wheah you gwine wid dis boat! You gwine to de Souf Pole—dat’s wheah you gwine! I done heah de Cap’n say so las’ night, an’ dat when he got dar he gwine to sail her off into space wid de whole kit an’ possum of us! I know mighty well somp’n gone wrong when I put Miss Edith to baid. She ain’ said two words, an’ befoah dat she been mighty chipper de whole trip. I didn’t know what it was, an’ I set an’ hol’ her han’ an’ sing to her, an’ it seem like she ain’ nevah goin’ to sleep. But bimeby when I slip up on deck a li’l’, to look at de sky, I heah de Cap’n an’ Mistah Lahkins argifyin’ up on de bridge, an’ I heah de Cap’n say dat we goin’ to de Souf Pole an’, ’scusin’ de libe’ty, sah, dat you gone plum crazy on de subjec’, and dat you got de Admiral an’ Mistah Macarony an’ Mistah Sturritt all crazy, laikewise; an’ dat he gwine to sail you-all to de Souf Pole, case dat wheah you-all b’long, an’ dat you-all nevah get home, case when he get dere he gwine straight off into space wid de ship, an’ de whole caboodle in it. An’ den right away, I knowed what’s de mattah wid my Miss Edith. I knowed she been up dar a-hearin’ somp’n, too. An’ I make up my min’, right den an’ dar, dat me an’ my Miss Edith ain’ gwine. I like to see me an’ my Miss Edith flyin’ off into space, an’ us wid no wings yit, an’ fallin’ down to de bottomless pit an’ lake o’ fiah! Humph! We’s gwine de other way, we is!”

She hesitated a moment for breath, and I took advantage of the recess.

“What did Mr. Larkins say about it?” I asked.

“Mistah Lahkins! Humph, Mistah Lahkins! What he always say? He jes’ laugh an’ say dat de Souf Pole ’bout de onliest stick o’ timbah he ain’ tie up to yit, but he reckon dat it strong enough to hol’ us f’m gwine off into space. Anyway, he willin’ to take chances wid de res’. ‘An’ de Cap’n say, ‘Dat’s all right, same here,’ but dat de bosen, Frenchy, been talkin’ ’roun’ ’mong de sailors, an’ dat some get mighty oneasy an’ wan’ to be put ashoah. An’ dat’s what I want. I wan’ me an’ my Miss Edith put ashoah. Den if you-all mus’ go on aftah de Souf Pole, why jes’ go, and leave me an’ my Miss Edith to go back home; an’ nex’ time tell folks wheah you gwine, an’ not make out like you takin’ all dis perwision down to some po’ kinfolks dat everybody related to, an’ nobody don’t know about.”

There was another brief intermission. The incident was entertaining enough, but there was a grave note in it as well. In the bosen, Frenchy, I recognized the sailor who on the first day had barred my entrance to the Billowcrest. I recalled my unfavorable impression of the man. He would be altogether the one, I thought, to stir up discontent among the sailors—an unpleasant prospect.

“Please, sah, won’t you put me an’ my Miss Edith ashoah, sah?” In my more serious consideration I had temporarily forgotten Zar’s presence. She had believed me hesitating, perhaps, and had adopted a persuasive tone in consequence. “Miss Edith mighty sad las’ night,” she added, “an’ I know you don’ want dat po’ gal to go spillin’ off into space like a lil’ robin when he nes’ break!”

“Not for the South Pole, Antarctics, and the whole world, Zar!” I said with a fervency that made the woman suddenly regard me with a new interest. There was a rustle behind her, and Edith Gale stepped out on deck. “Here is Miss Gale to speak for herself,” I added, with some confusion.

“What’s the matter, Zar? What do you want of Mr. Chase?”

“I want him to put we ’uns ashoah,” began the old woman. “I tol’ him we done foun’ out about gwine to de Souf Pole, an’ dat you an’ me wan’ to get off right heah, an’ go ashoah.”

“But I don’t want to get off, Zar. I’ve known all along where we are going. I want to go to the South Pole with—with Papa, and we’re going to bring it back with us.”

Zar regarded her mistress a moment in silence. Then she said in a voice of grave wonderment:

“I wish you tell me what dat Paw of yours gwine to do wid dat Souf Pole when he gits it? Ain’ he got money ’nuff already? Anyhow, who gwine to buy dat pole? An’ how dey gwine know hit’s de sho nuff Souf Pole when dey sees hit? What’s to hender us gwine ’shoah right heah, an’ hackin’ down any ole pole, an’ gwine home again widout any moah foolishness? Ain’ none dem folks up in New York gwine know de diff’ence!”

“Why, Zar,” laughed Miss Gale, “and you such a good church member!”

“Well, den, if yo’ Paw boun’ to go aftah de sho’ nuff pole, let him go, but don’ you go. You cain’t he’p him any!”

“But, Zar, you know I wouldn’t leave Papa. I never could.”

The old woman tossed her head.

“Humph! Bettah not be too suah!” She regarded me with a fierceness that somehow warmed me to the soul. “Dey ain’ no man livin’ I’d go to de Souf Pole foh,” she concluded, and with this final shot she disappeared, and went rumbling down the companion-way, “no, sah, not even if I could be wid him all de way an’ back again.”

“See, there’s a vessel,” said Edith Gale. “Bring the glass, please, and let’s try to make her out.”

I hastened to obey, though with no great interest in the result. The tropics and distant vessels had been wonderfully fascinating to me, but just at this moment I was dwelling fondly on Zar’s parting salute.

A little later she sought me again.

“Look heah,” she counselled solemnly, “you turn dis ship right ’round, now, an’ go back home. You go off down dar wid my Miss Edith, an’ bofe die an’ get all froze stiff, an’ den what good is you to each other, I like to know? What good is you?”

Zar had meant this for remonstrance and admonition, but I was her sworn friend and champion from that moment.

Chauncey Gale found me staring off at the horizon and building a fair castle in which the South Pole had no part.

“Chase,” he said, “don’t you make a mistake, too, and forget what I told you about Johnnie.”

The abruptness of it startled me a bit, but there was a quality in his voice that called for confidence and sincerity.

“Thank you, Mr. Gale, and—and I believe you spoke just in time.”

“I had my suspicions of it,” he admitted. “Tony got his medicine last night, I guess.”

“Oh!” I had started a bit, and Zar’s report of Miss Gale’s depression took on a new meaning.

“Yes, he’s no good this morning. He got all tangled up on his dynamo and we had an explosion that nearly set the ship afire. Then he went off half crying and I haven’t seen him since. I guess he wishes himself ashore, now, but wishin’ won’t do any good. He might get a message there all right, but he’s got to have something more than vibrations to get himself there. You see this ain’t any matrimonial excursion. We ain’t got any preacher along, and Biff’s license don’t cover that sort of a splice. Emory’s got a doctor’s diploma, but that wouldn’t fit the case, either.”

Mr. Emory was the Second Officer of the Billowcrest—a quiet, unobtrusive man whose love for the sea had led him back to it through devious ways. A runaway cabin boy, he had returned home in early manhood to become a country doctor, a naval hospital surgeon, a ship’s doctor and officer by turns, and was now serving us in the double capacity of the last two.

“Anyway,” concluded Gale, “we’ve got the South Pole on hand, and I’m in favor of taking things in their turn. You can’t afford to get in Macarony’s fix just now. We’ll need you when we get down there below the Horn. Besides we’re a long ways from shore, and the water here’s full of sharks.”

The last was certainly true. A black knife-like fin at that instant cut the water below us, and the swish of a steel-like tail as it disappeared made me shudder.

“That chap seems to be following us,” commented Gale, “they say it means a death aboard, but I think it’s more likely he’s after the garbage. ’Twouldn’t be a good time to swim, would it?”

He walked away and left me leaning over the rail. I thought his advice kindly, on the whole encouraging, and made up my mind to remember it. I wondered if Ferratoni had really spoken to Edith Gale. “Poor fellow,” I thought, “it must have been the glamour of the tropic night that made his ideal seem real to him for the moment.” And this I still believe to have been the case; but what it was he said that night to Edith Gale, or just what she replied, I shall never know.