great southern ice-barrier in about the beginning of February, when
the winter, which reaches its climax in August, would be just closing
in. The winter months were to be devoted to establishing a camp, from
which in the following spring--answering to our fall--the expedition
would be sent out.

"Hurray! a winter in the Polar ice," shouted the boys as the program
was explained to them.

"And a dash for the pole to cap it off," shouted the usually
unemotional Frank, his face shining at the prospect.

As has been said, the Southern Cross was an old whaler. Built rather
for staunchness than beauty, she was no ideal of a mariner's dream as
she unobtrusively cleared from her wharf one gray, chilly morning
which held a promise of snow in its leaden sky. There were few but the
stevedores, who always hang about "the Basin," and some idlers, to
watch her as she cast off her lines and a tug pulled her head round
till she pointed for the opening of the berth in which she had lain so
long. Of these onlookers not one had any more than a hazy idea of
where the vessel was bound and why.

As the Southern Cross steamed steadily on down the bay, past the bleak
hills of Staten Island, on by Sandy Hook, reaching out its long,
desolate finger as if pointing ships out to the ocean beyond, the
three boys stood together in a delighted group in the lee of a pile of
steel drums, each containing twenty gallons of gasolene.

"Well, old fellow, we're off at last," cried Frank, his eye kindling
as the Southern Cross altered her course a bit and stood due south