“No, oh no, it’s the—the excitement, I think.”
We leaned over and waved to those below. They waved back at us and cheered.
“How’s the weather up there?” called Gale.
“Cold,” I said. “Feels like the North Pole!” (It was, in fact, about zero at the time, but we did not mind it in the least.)
“What’s the matter with the South Pole?” This from Captain Biffer.
“Hot, there!” I yelled.
The Captain laughed.
“Well,” he shouted, “you’re right about some things, but you’ll find that barrel a parlor stove compared with the South Pole.”
Edith Gale leveled a glass toward the southern horizon. We were well down in the sixties, now. Icebergs and floating pack-ice had become common. To the southward lay mystery that in some weird form might at any moment rise above the somber waters. Presently she handed me the glass.
“See if you make out anything,” she said.