LOST IN THE LAND OF ICE OR Daring Adventures Around the South Pole

BY Captain Ralph Bonehill

Author of “Boys of the Fort,” “For the Liberty of Texas,” “Tour of the Zero Club,” etc.

NEW YORK A. WESSELS COMPANY 1902

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Copyright, 1902, by A. WESSELS CO.

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PREFACE

“Lost in the Land of Ice” relates the adventures of a boy and a young man who, in company with a sturdy ship’s crew, go in search of a lost treasure ship said to be cast away somewhere in the region of the South Pole. Fortunately the young man who plays such an important part in the narrative is rich, hence the fitting out of the expedition becomes a comparatively easy matter. But enemies hear of the lost treasure ship and also go in quest of it, and this results in scenes of peril not altogether due to natural causes.

My main object in writing this tale was to acquaint young readers with something of the wonders of the region around the South Pole. While numerous expeditions have been sent north and volumes upon volumes have been written concerning these trips, hardly any expeditions have gone south, and the Land of Desolation, so called, is almost as much of a mystery to-day as it was a century ago, the nearest approach to the Pole being made by Sir James Clark Ross in 1842, and this being but little closer than the approach by Wendell, in 1823. [Pg 4]It is indeed a Land of Desolation, yet to-day scientists and daring explorers are accomplishing so much that I believe the near future will see the mystery of both the South and the North Pole cleared away, in spite of the ice, the intense cold, and other drawbacks.

In placing this new story in the hands of my youthful readers, I thank them for their appreciation of my former efforts to interest them and trust this volume will fulfil their every expectation.

Captain Ralph Bonehill.

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CONTENTS.

[Pg 7]

LOST IN THE LAND OF ICE

CHAPTER I THE COLD-STORAGE WAREHOUSE

Dong! dong! dong! dong!

Loud and clear through the midnight air rang the warning gong of a long hook-and-ladder truck as the machine bowled along over the granite-block pavement of one of the lower streets of the city of New York.

The hour was well past midnight, yet New York never sleeps, and the streets were more or less alive with people, some going to their early work, others returning from a half night of pleasure.

Dong! dong! dong! dong!

Down past the Astor House on Broadway swept the heavy truck, filled with swaying firemen, who clung fast like so many monkeys as they donned their rubber coats and boots. Five minutes before, most of them had been sleeping on their cots in the truck house, half a dozen blocks away. But now every man was wide [Pg 8]awake and ready to do his duty to the utmost, no matter what the peril.

Dong! dong! dong! dong!

The long truck swept around the corner of Vesey street, and as it did so the clanging of the gong awoke many of the sleepers in the hotel with a start.

“What’s the matter?”

“Where is the fire?”

“Is the hotel burning?”

Such were some of the questions asked, as those in the rooms either ran into the hallway or craned their heads out of the many windows of the second, third, and fourth stories of the hotel.

“No danger here,” was the reply, which was quickly circulated. “The fire is at the Powell cold-storage warehouse, two blocks below here.”

“The Powell cold-storage warehouse,” repeated a tall and handsome youth, who was occupying an elegantly furnished apartment on the second floor. “You are sure of that?”

“Yes, sah,” replied the hallman.

“Then I’m going to dress and go to it,” went on Barry Filmore. “I am interested in that plant.”

“If you is, I’d be sorry to see it burn down,” remarked the hallman, for he had received many a generous tip from rich Barry Filmore, and he liked the young man very much.

[Pg 9]

“Oh, it’s insured, or at least it ought to be,” answered Barry; “although old Powell is such a queer stick, there is no telling what he is up to, half the time.” And he began to haul on his clothing with all speed.

Barry Filmore was a youth of nineteen, tall, strong, good looking, and well liked by all who knew him. He was the orphan son of a former Brooklyn millionaire, and at the death of his parents, three years previous to the opening of this story, had been placed in the care of Jasper Powell, a peculiar old man, who was at the head of the Powell Cold Storage Warehouse Company, and who was also the inventor of several systems of cold storage and refrigerating, in use both in warehouses and on freight trains.

Barry did not like Powell because of his peculiar ways; yet as the old man let him do very nearly as he pleased, the youth found little cause to complain. Powell was a bachelor, living at a cheap hotel on the east side. Barry did not live with him, but instead put up either at one of the leading hotels or on board of his own private steam yacht, the Arrow. The Arrow had been left to Barry by his father, who had also, by the terms of his will, left his only son two hundred dollars per month for living expenses until he should become twenty-one, when he was to inherit the whole of the Filmore fortune, less ten thousand dollars, which was [Pg 10]to go to Jasper Powell for his services as executor.

When Barry reached the street he found it crowded with people, all rushing in the direction of the fire. A steam engine had gone on ahead and now another followed, and then came a patrol wagon with several special policemen.

The Powell cold-storage warehouse was situated in the middle of a block, with other warehouses on either side of it. When Barry reached the vicinity, flames were shooting from the windows of the first floor, and thick, black smoke was puffing out from many windows above and from the roof.

“That building is doomed!”

“The firemen will be lucky if they save the buildings on both sides!”

“Where is the watchman?”

So the cries ran on, as the crowd surged closer and closer, until the police drove the people back. One steamer was already at work, and now a second began to pour two streams into the second-story window. But the crackling of the flames increased, and soon it was evident that the fire was crawling steadily up the rear of the structure to the roof.

Suddenly a wild shriek was heard, coming directly after a jingling of glass, and an old man with flowing white hair appeared in the frame of a third-story window. He had dashed out [Pg 11]the panes of glass with his hands, and the blood was flowing from those members.

“Save me!” he screamed. “Save me! Don’t let me die like a rat in a trap!”

“It’s old man Powell!” uttered half a dozen voices. “What is he doing in the building at this time of night?”

“Bring up a ladder, boys!” shouted the captain of the hook-and-ladder truck. “Step lively now, or we’ll be too late.”

“Save me!” continued Jasper Powell, dancing around on the window sill. “You dogs! Why don’t you save me? You want me to burn up, don’t you?” Always of a peculiar turn of mind, the fire had driven him almost insane.

The ladders were rushed forward and placed against the window, and up the first of them ran a truckman, followed by a fellow-fireman. But before the window was gained, Jasper Powell shook his fist at the advancing men.

“No, you don’t!” he snarled. “You shan’t learn my secret! Get back! I’ll come down alone!” And he continued to shake his fist at the two firemen.

“Keep cool, old man,” said the truckman, soothingly. “We’ll have you down, all safe and sound in a minute.”

“You shan’t learn my secret, I say!” roared Jasper Powell, frantically. “Get back! My secret has been my own for ten years! Get [Pg 12]back!” And then, as the truckman came up another step, the old man turned suddenly and disappeared from view.

“Well, blame him for a fool!” muttered the truckman. “Come back here, if you want to be saved.”

“He’s a goner!” yelled the crowd. “He’s gone crazy, and will rush right into the flames.”

Barry had listened to Jasper Powell’s words with keen interest.

“His secret!” he murmured. “I knew he had a secret last week, and last month, too, when he wouldn’t let me go near room 18. Whatever his secret is, it’s in room 18—and I’m going to find it out!” he added suddenly.

He was in the front rank of spectators, and darting past a policeman, made straight for the doorway of the burning building. The flames had now found an outlet at the rear of the building, so the hallway was comparatively free from smoke and fire.

“Hi, come back here!” yelled the officer of the law. “Do you want to be burnt up?”

“No; and I’m not going to be burnt up!” answered Barry. “I know what I am doing.”

“It’s sure death to go in there.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Not much you won’t!” answered the policeman, and darted after Barry. But the youth [Pg 13]was not to be caught, and soon a puff of smoke drove the bluecoat back into the street.

In the course of the past few years Barry had paid the cold-storage warehouse many visits, and consequently he knew the building thoroughly. The elevator shaft was a mass of flames, but the stairs behind it were still untouched, and up these he went, three steps at a time.

“Mr. Powell! Mr. Powell! Where are you?” he called out at the top of his lungs.

No answer came back—only the crackling of the flames—and he mounted to the third story. He was passing through the upper hallway when he stumbled over something and fell headlong.

“Oh!” came in a groan, and he recognized Jasper Powell’s voice. The old man was in a chill of fear, with his limbs trembling violently and his teeth chattering.

“Go! leave me—leave me with my secret!” he gasped, staring wildly at Barry. “Go! go!”

“Mr. Powell, don’t you know me!” returned the youth. “It is your ward, Barry Filmore.”

“No! no! You are the demon of the South Pole, come to rob me of my secret! Begone, or the fiery furnace will open to receive you! Begone, I say!” And then the old man began to weep like a little child.

“As mad as a March hare!” murmured Barry.

[Pg 14]

“But he’s got a secret, sure!” he added mentally.

“Leave me, I say!” continued Jasper Powell. “You are the demon of the South Pole, but the secret of the land of ice is mine—all mine! And the gold of the treasure ship, too! All mine—all Jasper Powell’s! Ha! ha!” And leaping to his feet he flourished his arms wildly before Barry, and then darted swiftly toward the rear of the building, where the flames now made all as bright as day.

“Mr. Powell, come back! Please come back!” yelled Barry, hoarsely. The strangeness of the situation almost struck him dumb.

“Come back, to be robbed of my secret? Never!” screamed the old man. “Farewell, and when next we meet, let it be at the South Pole!”

And with one long cry which rang in Barry Filmore’s ears for days afterward, he rushed for the rear of the warehouse and plunged straight into the roaring flames, to be seen no more!

[Pg 15]

CHAPTER II BARRY TO THE RESCUE

“Gone!”

The cold perspiration stood out upon Barry Filmore’s hot forehead as he gazed transfixed at the spot where Jasper Powell had disappeared.

“He has committed suicide, while temporarily insane—and he has taken his secret with him,” thought the youth. “What an awful thing to do!”

He started to go forward—to see what had actually become of the old man—but the flames grew hotter and he was forced to retreat.

The thick, choking smoke was now swirling everywhere above his head, and he had to crouch low to keep from being both blinded and suffocated.

As he retreated his foot struck something bright and kicked it ahead.

It was a key, and to it was attached a bit of flat brass stamped with the number 18.

“The key to that mysterious room,” thought Barry. “I wonder if I have time to follow up that mystery?”

It was taking a big risk, for the flames were [Pg 16]both below and behind him, and sweeping onward rapidly. Should he be caught, his life would pay the forfeit.

But Barry Filmore was used to taking chances, and was bound to take many more even more daring—otherwise this tale would never have been written. He had had his own way from childhood, and when he made up his mind to do a thing he always did it.

He knew where room 18 was located, on the floor above, almost at the front of the building. But could he climb those smoke-laden stairs and get back again before the fire should have a chance to cut him off?

“Here goes, anyway!” he muttered, half desperately. “If I’m lost, what does it matter? Nobody will be left to mourn over my death. I guess some of those fourth-handed relations out West will be glad to get hold of my money. They never cared for me.”

Up he went, swiftly but cautiously, crouching down like a whipped dog, that he might clear himself of the fatal smoke. Once a cloud swept over him and he had to shut his eyes and hold his breath. He breathed with difficulty and the tears ran down his cheeks like water.

Crash! boom! Something in the rear had given way, and up came a shower of sparks, burning him on the hands and neck and setting fire to his coat. But he slapped the tiny fire [Pg 17]out and rushed on, and a moment later took him to the door of room 18.

It was the work of an instant to insert the key in the lock and open the door. But then Barry gave a cry of dismay, for before him he beheld what looked like a large empty closet.

“Duped!” he muttered, when he stopped short, for the cry of a human voice—the voice of a boy—had reached his ears. The cry came from behind the opening he had discovered.

“Hullo!” cried Barry. “Who are you, and where are you?”

“Here I am—Bob Baxter!” was the muffled answer. “Let me out! I think there must be fire around here!”

“Think there must be fire?” repeated Barry. “There is fire, and lots of it. Where are you?”

“Here,” and then followed a thump on the boarding at the back of the closet.

A closer examination showed Barry that the back of the closet formed a thick, packed door leading to an inner apartment—the door being similar to that used on a butcher’s refrigerator. The handle was concealed by a slide of wood, but the youth quickly uncovered it.

To swing the ponderous door open was not easy, and Barry tugged and tussled with it for fully a minute before it yielded. When the door came open an icy blast reached him which caused him to shiver.

[Pg 18]

The scene which met his gaze caused him to cry in amazement.

In the middle of the apartment before him stood a tall, well-built boy of sixteen. He was clothed in nothing but a bathing suit. Around the left ankle of the boy was a band of iron, attached to a long iron chain, which was fastened to a ring in the floor. The apartment, which was cold, contained a cot, upon which the boy had been sleeping, a stand with a number of books, and two chairs. There were no windows to the apartment, but several ventilators, and an incandescent light burned close to the ceiling.

“By stars! What are you doing here—and with only that bathing suit on?” demanded Barry, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak. “Do you want to freeze to death?”

“I’m so glad to see somebody besides old Powell,” answered the boy, in an odd voice, for he was not used to speaking to any one. “I wish I could get away from here.”

“You shall get away, and mighty quick, too. Do you know the storage warehouse is burning up?”

“I knew it was getting warm in here, and I noticed the smoke. But how am I going to get away with that around my ankle?”

“Doesn’t it unlock?”

“Yes; but Powell has the key.”

“Then it’s gone for good, for Jasper Powell [Pg 19]has thrown himself into the fire. I have a bunch of keys and I’ll try to fix it. There, now you are free.”

“I’ll never forget you for that!” cried the lad, and caught Barry by the arm.

“Don’t talk now,” answered Barry. “We must get out, or it will be too late. Come.” And he led the way to the hallway.

But the flames had done their work, and escape in that direction was completely cut off.

“We will try the front windows—the firemen have ladders up,” said Barry. “Here, put on my overcoat.” For the night was so chilly that the youth had donned his light overcoat before leaving the Astor House.

They ran for the front windows and Barry raised one of the sashes. A firemen’s ladder was just below, but it was not quite high enough.

Willing hands raised up the ladder, putting on a bottom section.

“Shall we come up?” asked a fireman.

“No, we are all right,” answered Barry, and came out on the ladder, followed by the boy he had liberated. As both came down the ladder smoke and flames swirled all around them, but they reached the bottom in safety.

Then what a wild cheer went up!

Barry turned to his companion. “Come with me,” he said. “I have a room at the Astor House, only a few blocks from here. Come [Pg 20]on,” and before firemen or police could stop him he had the stranger out of the crowd and was hurrying him up Vesey street. They entered the hotel by the side entrance, and a minute later were safe in Barry’s apartment.

[Pg 21]

CHAPTER III BOB’S REMARKABLE STORY

“Now, then, I would like to know who you are, and how you came to be locked up in that cold room,” said Barry, after he had taken a good look at the boy he had rescued.

“All right, I’ll tell you anything you wish to know,” was the ready reply. “But say, ain’t it hot in here!” And the boy threw off the overcoat Barry had loaned him.

“Hot!” Barry glanced at a near-by thermometer. “It’s only fifty-eight. I don’t call that hot.”

“Old Powell kept the thermometer at thirty-five in my room.”

“Thirty-five! Why that’s only three degrees above freezing!”

“Right you are!”

“And did he keep you there without regular clothing?”

“He did. I was never allowed to put on clothing, excepting when he took me out for an airing in the dead of winter. Then I used to wear a light suit, but no underclothing.”

“Gee Christopher! And what did he do that for?”

[Pg 22]

“It’s a long story.” The boy paused. “Who are you?”

“I am Barry Filmore, an orphan, the only son of my father, who was a Brooklyn millionaire. He’s dead now, and so are all of my folk. Who are you?”

“I am Bob Baxter. My father was Professor Amos Baxter, who sailed South a number of years ago, to hunt for the South Pole. All of my folk are dead, too.”

“And why was Jasper Powell keeping you in that cold room?”

“He was a peculiar man, and he had a notion that he could get me so toughened that I would never feel the cold. And to tell the truth, I never do feel the cold,” went on Bob. “If you don’t mind, I’ll open the window and get some fresh air.”

“Go ahead, and I’ll put on the overcoat,” laughed Barry, and did so. “Well, this is the funniest thing I ever heard of. It’s a wonder he didn’t freeze you stiff.”

“I used to kick first, but I soon got used to it, and now I rather like being cold.” Bob opened the window wide and drank in the cold night air. “Did you say old Powell was dead?”

“He must be,” and Barry gave the particulars of how the peculiar old man had acted. “He was a queer stick.”

“I guess he deserved what he got,” was Bob’s [Pg 23]comment. “But let me tell you, he knew a thing or two.”

“What about?”

“About lots of things—inventions and things to drink from little bottles to keep from starvation, and how to live so that the cold would not have any effect on you. He had it all planned that he and I were to sail for the South Pole next year, to hunt for my father who was lost, and to locate a strange country, said to be inhabited by a tribe of people unknown here.”

“Was he going in secret?”

“Yes. He said he would fit out an expedition at his own expense; that he was a millionaire.”