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 77female 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 78by 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 79mighty 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’ 80tie 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............