Chapter 5

FOOTNOTES:[26]A cerf-volant, argent, springing over a barbican, on a field, or. The whole surrounded by a garter. See Peluchet, Hist. des Armoires.[27]On all my trips I have carried the gun I refer to, a Mannlicher-Schopenhauer, 6 MM, extra heavy. There is nothing compares with it for long range fire. W.E.T.

FOOTNOTES:

[26]A cerf-volant, argent, springing over a barbican, on a field, or. The whole surrounded by a garter. See Peluchet, Hist. des Armoires.

[27]On all my trips I have carried the gun I refer to, a Mannlicher-Schopenhauer, 6 MM, extra heavy. There is nothing compares with it for long range fire. W.E.T.

Chapter X

In home waters. The celebration in our honor. And what of my companions? Reveries and Recollections. The End.

Chapter X

The balance of my story is briefly told. On April twenty-third, we picked up Fire Island light and two hours later had received a clean bill of health from the quarantine station.

The trip back through Baffin Bay had been uneventful. We had come as we had gone, in a direct line. At Triplett's request we put in at St. John's. He went ashore, taking Sausalito with him. Late in the afternoon he returned, alone. His stony eye forbade cross examination, but I questioned him that night in the cabin.

"She's went back to Californy" he said. "You see, I got kinder tired of her. Besides I'm headin' back ter Noo York."

Again his slow wink expressed volumes.

I have not seen that strange woman since. She sends me a picture post card occasionally, usually a winter scene, with mica snow. It is her inarticulate way of asking forgiveness for the blow she dealt me.

THE CONSULTATIONNothing was more characteristic of the candor and co-operative spirit of the Commander of the Traprock Expedition than his constant willingness to discuss matters with his fellow-travellers. One of the most moot of all moot questions which frequently presented itself was that of route. Having arrived at a certain or uncertain point in the vast snowfields, someone was sure to ask, "Where do we go from here?" or "Where do you think you are now?"From the outset Dr. Traprock realized the desirability of an answer to such interrogations. His experience during numerous previous Arctic voyages convinced him that most of the bitterness of feeling which almost inevitably disrupts polar-parties springs from the unwillingness, to put it mildly, of the leader to satisfy the natural curiosity of his men in this regard. In order to avoid this difficulty he had carefully prepared maps showing the progress made during each day with the projected itinerary, points of interest, and probable weather conditions. Colored crayons added a decorative value to the charts.We here see him explaining to Wigmore, the somewhat belligerent snow-and-ice-expert, the proposed return route. Instead of confusing the rather unscientific man with a mass of latitudinal and longitudinal figures, the Doctor states the whole matter clearly by saying, "We simply follow the green line."The fatal results of disregarding this injunction are embodied in the text. Needless to say they fully prove the value of the Commander's cartographical skill. An interesting sidelight is the fact that their daily charts were equally accurate when based on solar observation or during the long Arctic night when the only basis of authority was Captain Triplett's amazing bump of locality, which was about the size of a hen's-egg.

THE CONSULTATION

Nothing was more characteristic of the candor and co-operative spirit of the Commander of the Traprock Expedition than his constant willingness to discuss matters with his fellow-travellers. One of the most moot of all moot questions which frequently presented itself was that of route. Having arrived at a certain or uncertain point in the vast snowfields, someone was sure to ask, "Where do we go from here?" or "Where do you think you are now?"

From the outset Dr. Traprock realized the desirability of an answer to such interrogations. His experience during numerous previous Arctic voyages convinced him that most of the bitterness of feeling which almost inevitably disrupts polar-parties springs from the unwillingness, to put it mildly, of the leader to satisfy the natural curiosity of his men in this regard. In order to avoid this difficulty he had carefully prepared maps showing the progress made during each day with the projected itinerary, points of interest, and probable weather conditions. Colored crayons added a decorative value to the charts.

We here see him explaining to Wigmore, the somewhat belligerent snow-and-ice-expert, the proposed return route. Instead of confusing the rather unscientific man with a mass of latitudinal and longitudinal figures, the Doctor states the whole matter clearly by saying, "We simply follow the green line."

The fatal results of disregarding this injunction are embodied in the text. Needless to say they fully prove the value of the Commander's cartographical skill. An interesting sidelight is the fact that their daily charts were equally accurate when based on solar observation or during the long Arctic night when the only basis of authority was Captain Triplett's amazing bump of locality, which was about the size of a hen's-egg.

A Consultation

Just inside the three mile limit we were boarded by revenue officers from the patrol boat, W.H. Anderson. They made a careful search for liquor.

"Back to abnormalcy!" carped Swank who was panting to get ashore.

My wires from Grant Land (via Indian runners to Moose Factory) had warned the scientific world of our arrival. Further details, giving brief accounts of the deaths of Plock, Miskin and Sloff had been telegraphed from St. John's.

The same gala array and marine salutation which had sped our departure welcomed our return. But it was with a heavy heart that I stepped on the Yacht Club landing stage. My mysterious orders were still to be explained, orders which, had they reached me when intended, would have brought me ignominiously home, empty of honors and achievement.

A number of strange faces surrounded me in the club room among which I recognized Harris, the E.U. secretary, "Harmless" Harris we used to call him.

"Where is Waxman?" I asked coldly.

A shadow of pain flitted across his face.

"Of course," he murmured. "You haven't heard ... it was very sudden ... poor Waxman ... heart failure, you know ... the day after we heard of your safe arrival."

So my old friend Waxman was gone. With the receipt of this news I instantly dismissed all unkind thoughts I may have had of this benevolent old man. As I look at his photograph now, on my mantelpiece, bland and serene, it seems to breathe a benediction upon me. The pleading look in his eyes seems still to ask for peanuts. May I cherish always, as he did, a love for other explorers and an interest in their exploits.

If anything was calculated to further soften my heart it was the more joyous occasion which followed, the grand banquet given in my honor at the Hotel Commodore. That entire, mighty hive hummed with explorers and noted travellers. Overflow meetings were held in the Biltmore, Yale Club, Grand Central Station and on nearby subway platforms.

The scene in the ballroom beggared description. On the dais with me sat representatives of all the National scientific bodies and distinguished guests from abroad. Publishers, artists and editors werepresent by the hundreds. Famous actors forced their way to my chair, above which blossomed the words "Traprock must be true" done in thousands of Bougainvilleas and snowdrops.

The colleges of the country had sent their delegations, my own Alma Mater surpassing all with a group of two hundred bright-faced lads whose merry songs and cheers made the welkin ring. They had come by special train from New Haven, accompanied by members of the faculty, for whom the affair was a great junket, you may be sure. Harvard stood officially aloof owing to their recent ban on Eskimos, but the great sister university, as well as Princeton, was represented by individuals who made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in numbers.

When my brothers in the Phi Chapter of D.K.E. arose and sang our fraternal anthem I felt obliged to remain seated. Let me here explain that curious action. It was because my mind went back to that period of terrific strain when I had actuallyeatena Brother!

But the thing which touched me most deeply[28]wasthe presence, at adjoining tables of the combined Boards of Trade of Derby and Shelton, sister cities of the Housatonic, and the Derby Fencibles, forty strong, accompanied by their fife and drum corps wearing the old continental uniforms. My eyes dimmed as I thought of the stirring times when I had stepped to that same inspiring music, as we practised our secret marches back of the old Sterling Melodeon factory.

The chairman of the evening was my life-long friend Irving T. Grosbeak, R.O.T.C. who was introduced by Luther Slattin the new president of the E.U. Other addresses were made by Professor Phineas A. Crutch,[29]F.P.A., S.O.S., Col. Woodwark of the Canadian Mounted and Lord Beaverboard of the South African Game Commission. The principal forensic display was by Ex-senator Wicklefield of Wyoming whom Dr. Grosbeak characterised brilliantly as "The Aurora Borealis of Oratory, the most dependable geyser in the world since Old Faithful blew up and became a brook."

But the climax of the evening came when an oldman in a red shirt and fire helmet tottered to my side and with tears streaming down his face, quavered, "The world may claim Walter Traprock butweown him."

It was old "Shelly" Smith of Naugatuck Hose Co. No. 1. His father used to spade our garden.

Of course I was called upon for a speech but for the first time in my life I begged to be excused. My heart was too full. Captain Triplett stood up in my place and embarrassed me by pointing his horny finger in my direction and saying repeatedly, "He done it."

Grammatical errors in public always annoy me.

The rest is history. I shall never return to the North. I feel that I have seen all that it can offer. My work in that direction is done.

Of those who returned with me all but one has carved his niche in the rocks of time. The exception is Dane, who has never fully recovered from the blow dealt him, by my arm indeed, but due to the cowardly shove of Plock. His work in comparative ethnology, however, was accomplished before he was stricken. His object in making the trip was to discover the similarities, if any, between the surviving Eskimo tribes and the early civilization of the Nile dynasties. The only entry I find in his note books is the rather pathetic one "no report."

He is now occupying a comfortable room in the Shadyside Retreat, Walnut St., Philadelphia, where he busies himself cutting out paper dolls of Egyptian character, and where I occasionally visit him.

Frissell remains the same blithe spirit as ever. The horrors of our return voyage left no more lasting impression on this debonair youth than a passing fit of seasickness.

Swank and Whinney naturally show spiritual scars, especially the latter, though he is greatly cheered by the royalties received from the sale of his sprightly journal, written in total darkness.[30]My two close companions and I, with the occasional addition of Triplett when we can lure him from his own diggings often dine together at a cosy little tea house in Forty-fifth Street. There we plan new ventures and discuss the old. What stirring memories flock about us, what tender visions neath Tropic sun and Arctic stars!

Kippiputuona, Babai, Ikik, Lapatok, theirnames are a sentimental rosary, a succession of lovely chords, lost chords, but, let us hope, not the last!

At a recent meeting the recollection of Whinney's affliction evoked from him this brave comment.

"Just think!" he mused, "to love a woman, to lose her, and to never see her."

"Whinney," I said, raising my glass in his direction, "there is more in life than merely seeing."

FOOTNOTES:[28]Excepting, perhaps, the long telegram from my old friend Capt. Peter Fitzurse, explaining that he was unavoidably detained correcting the proof of his forthcoming autobiography. See appendix for further light on Fitzurse's claim that the three fingers missing from his right handactually were frozen off when he grasped the North Pole. W.E.T.[29]Author of "The Queen of Sheba."[30]Light on the Pole, by R. Whinney. $5.00 net, $4.50 in lots of six. Post. prep. Intr. by Prof. C. Towne, Nyack University.

FOOTNOTES:

[28]Excepting, perhaps, the long telegram from my old friend Capt. Peter Fitzurse, explaining that he was unavoidably detained correcting the proof of his forthcoming autobiography. See appendix for further light on Fitzurse's claim that the three fingers missing from his right handactually were frozen off when he grasped the North Pole. W.E.T.

[29]Author of "The Queen of Sheba."

[30]Light on the Pole, by R. Whinney. $5.00 net, $4.50 in lots of six. Post. prep. Intr. by Prof. C. Towne, Nyack University.

APPENDIX

In reference to a note on page 180, it seems desirable to reprint below (1) a paragraph which recently appeared in a New York newspaper over the signature of Don Marquis, and (2) a copy of the letter written by Dr. Traprock to Mr. Marquis clearing up the point in question. Ed.

A great deal of doubt is cast by his strange reticences upon the recent claim of Dr. Walter E. Traprock that he reached the North Pole. Did he, or did he not, find three fingers at the Pole which were frozen off of the hand of Capt. Peter Fitzurse when the Captain grasped the Pole, more than forty years ago, being the first man to lay his hand upon it? If he did not find these fingers, he did not reach the Pole. If he found them, and has said nothing about it, his object in concealing the fact can be nothing else than an unworthy jealousy. Who is this Traprock, anyhow? Capt. Fitzurse intimatesthat at the proper time he has startling revelations to make. It is significant that Traprock was first heard of a year or two after Dr. Cook ceased to figure in the public prints.

On Board "Kawa"Peck's Slip, N.Y.July 21, 1922.Don Marquis, Esq.Park Row,New York City.Dear Sir:—A number of my friends have called my attention to recent remarks published over your signature which by insinuation cast a veil of ambiguity over my identity. I am not used to having veils cast over me and I resent the practice."Who is this person, Traprock?" you ask. "Has he ever been to the North Pole?"Let the ice-bergs answer! Let the Polar-pack groan its reply. I scorn to.You also ask if by any chance I discovered three fingers frozen to the Pole. Ididfind three fingers not frozen to the Pole, but preserved in an otherwise empty gin bottle. They were cached in a rudecairn, mute memorials of some brave man who had ventured north of eighty-six. Of course I at once thought of my friend Fitzurse. Could they be his? The nails were not black enough, but I could not be sure.I took them with me to the Pole, purposing to leave them with my records, but my plans were modified by the extraordinary attraction which the fingers had for Ikik, Snak and Yalok, three Eskimo women whom I found living at the Pole, or to be exact, under it.How, finally, to preserve peace I divided the fingers giving one to each to wear as a talisman is an enlivening memory. A few days later, noticing that Ikik was not wearing her finger I questioned her as to its whereabouts. "Me eat" she said. The others had done likewise. I trust that any doubts you may have had in regard to my identity etc. will be dissipated by these circumstantial details.Yours,Walter E. Traprock

On Board "Kawa"Peck's Slip, N.Y.July 21, 1922.

Don Marquis, Esq.Park Row,New York City.

Dear Sir:—

A number of my friends have called my attention to recent remarks published over your signature which by insinuation cast a veil of ambiguity over my identity. I am not used to having veils cast over me and I resent the practice.

"Who is this person, Traprock?" you ask. "Has he ever been to the North Pole?"

Let the ice-bergs answer! Let the Polar-pack groan its reply. I scorn to.

You also ask if by any chance I discovered three fingers frozen to the Pole. Ididfind three fingers not frozen to the Pole, but preserved in an otherwise empty gin bottle. They were cached in a rudecairn, mute memorials of some brave man who had ventured north of eighty-six. Of course I at once thought of my friend Fitzurse. Could they be his? The nails were not black enough, but I could not be sure.

I took them with me to the Pole, purposing to leave them with my records, but my plans were modified by the extraordinary attraction which the fingers had for Ikik, Snak and Yalok, three Eskimo women whom I found living at the Pole, or to be exact, under it.

How, finally, to preserve peace I divided the fingers giving one to each to wear as a talisman is an enlivening memory. A few days later, noticing that Ikik was not wearing her finger I questioned her as to its whereabouts. "Me eat" she said. The others had done likewise. I trust that any doubts you may have had in regard to my identity etc. will be dissipated by these circumstantial details.

Yours,Walter E. Traprock

TheCruise of the KawaByDr. Walter E. Traprock,F.R.S.S. E.U.A delicious literary burlesque—superlatively amusing. Here are found thewak-wak, that horrid super-seamonster; the gallantfatu-livabirds who lay square eggs; the flowing hoopa bowl, and the sensuousnabiscusplant; the tantalizing, tatooing, fabulous folk music; the beautiful, trusting Filbertine women and their quaint marriage customs, as well as the dread results of the white man's coming—all described with a frank freedom, literary charm and meticulous regard for truth which is delightful.The Cruise of the Kawa stands unique among the literature of modern exploration. Nothing like it has ever come out of the South Seas. It isthetravel book of years. Strikingly illustrated, too, from special photographs, it tells pictorially, as well as verbally, the exciting, amusing and entertaining story of an exploration in the South Seas.G.P. Putnam's SonsNew York London

TheCruise of the KawaByDr. Walter E. Traprock,F.R.S.S. E.U.

A delicious literary burlesque—superlatively amusing. Here are found thewak-wak, that horrid super-seamonster; the gallantfatu-livabirds who lay square eggs; the flowing hoopa bowl, and the sensuousnabiscusplant; the tantalizing, tatooing, fabulous folk music; the beautiful, trusting Filbertine women and their quaint marriage customs, as well as the dread results of the white man's coming—all described with a frank freedom, literary charm and meticulous regard for truth which is delightful.

The Cruise of the Kawa stands unique among the literature of modern exploration. Nothing like it has ever come out of the South Seas. It isthetravel book of years. Strikingly illustrated, too, from special photographs, it tells pictorially, as well as verbally, the exciting, amusing and entertaining story of an exploration in the South Seas.

G.P. Putnam's SonsNew York London

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