"There ain't any," laughed Ben, blotting his big, scrawling signature
on the ship's books.

On and on toward the Pole plied the Southern Cross. One night when she
was about two hundred miles at sea off the mouth of the Amazon, the
boys, as it was one of the soft tropical nights peculiar to those
regions, were all grouped forward trying to keep cool and keeping a
sharp lookout for the real Southern Cross. This wonderful, heavenly
body might be expected to be visible almost any night now, Captain
Hazzard had told them. Old Ben shared their watch.

The little group was seated right on the forefoot or "over-hang" of
the polar ship, their legs dangling over the bow above the water.
Beneath their feet they could see the bright phosphorous gleam as the
ship ploughed onward. They were rather silent. In fact, except for
desultory conversation, the throb of the engines and the regular
sounding of the ship's bell as it marked the hours were the only
sounds to be heard.

It was past eight bells and everyone on the ship but the helmsman had
turned in, leaving the boys and Ben on watch, when there came a
terrific shock that caused the vessel to quiver and creak as if she
had run bow on into solid land. Captain Hazzard was thrown from his
bunk and all over the vessel there was the wildest confusion.

Shouts and cries filled the air as Captain Hazzard, not able to
imagine what had happened rushed out on deck in his night clothes. The
sky had become overcast and it was terribly black. It was hardly
possible for one to see his hand before his face. A heavy sulphurous