Un Déjeuner à la Bougie
The reception at the Yacht Club station was a gay affair. It was positively my first appearance upon any landing-stage. The efficient steward had arranged an authoritative punch and many a hearty toast was pledged and responded to with feeling. But we were soon on our way again. My final orders sealed with the official-seal of the Explorers Union, were placed in my hands by the venerable President, Waxman, who was greatly affected at parting. He had been eating peanuts of which he was passionately fond, and I recall that he thrust a few of them into my hands after saying, "Traprock, we expect a great deal ..." he choked, and was unable to complete his sentence.
At exactly two o'clock, on the flood tide, we backed out of the pier and under Triplett's guidance worked our way sideways to mid-channel. The steward at the Yacht Club dipped his colors and fired a commodore's salute with his brass half-pounder to which I replied in proper fashion, lining up the entire expedition at the rail, eyes-right, while Triplett blew our Klaxon and shook a chain of sleigh bells which Frissell had brought along "because they seemed so northern."
It was during this lining-up process that I discovered that one man was missing. It was Wigmore, the snow and ice expert, who had failed to put in an appearance and I was greatly depressed by the fact which seemed to me to be an evil omen. Moreover he was an extremely valuable man with vast experience in alpine work as well as in the practical phases of glaciology with which he came in contact in his work as general-manager of the Higley Ice Cream Cone Co. But marine law is rigid. We were due to sail at two sharp, Wigmore or no Wigmore, and we sped off without him.
But my disappointment was to be almost immediately assuaged. When we were about an eighth of a mile above the Canal Street bridge, the last of the great arches which spans the river, Swank rushed up to me and cried, "Look, look. There he is——!"
I followed the direction of his pointing finger. Sure enough, there was Wigmore, a tiny speck, running along the center span of the bridge. He was in full Alpine costume with rope, ax, pick and felt hat, and I saw to my amazement that he was going to board us. With the nimbleness of a chamois he scrambled over the railing, instantly beginning a spider-like descent of his rope which he had hooked above. Silhouetted against the sky I could see the curved feather in his cap, a minute question mark. The question in my mind was one of hair-raising anxiety. Would he make it, or not? Upon the answer seemed to depend the whole success or failure of our venture. His descent was timed to a nicety. Just as the Kawa plowed beneath him he gave a shake of his body, loosening the fastening, and dropped lightly to the deck amid our resounding cheers. Was it only in imagination that I saw the Goddess of Liberty wave her gigantic, torch-bearing arm, as if she too felt the thrill of a brave deed, nobly done?
"Bravo, Wigmore," I cried. "But what detained you?"
"My equipment, sir," he said, coming to attention. "They wouldn't let me into my apartment. The clerk thought I was a line-man for the Edison Company."