"Oh, it's southward ho, where the breezes blow; we're off for the
pole, yo, ho! heave ho!"

"Is that you, Harry?" asked a lad of about seventeen, without looking
up from some curious-looking frames and apparatus over which he was
working in the garage workshop back of his New York home on Madison
Avenue.

"Ay! ay! my hearty," responded his brother, giving his trousers a
nautical hitch; "you seem to have forgotten that to-day is the day we
are to see the polar ship."

"Not likely," exclaimed Frank Chester, flinging down his wrench and
passing his hand through a mop of curly hair; "what time is it?"

"Almost noon; we must be at the Eric Basin at two o'clock."

"As late as that? Well, building a motor sledge and fixing up the
Golden Eagle certainly occupies time."

"Come on; wash up and then we'll get dinner and start over."

"Will Captain Hazzard be there?"

"Yes, they are getting the supplies on board now."

"Say, that sounds good, doesn't it? Mighty few boys get such a chance.
The South Pole,--ice-bergs--sea-lions,--and--and--oh, heaps of
things."