THE HEART OF THE ANTARCTIC.
The professor was the first to break the tense silence that followed
Frank's words.
"Into the heart of the Antarctic," he breathed.
There seemed to be something in the words that threw a spell of awed silence over them all. Little was said as on and on through the polar night the aeroplane drove,—the great wind of the roof of the world harassing her savagely, viciously,—as if it resented her intrusion into the long hidden arcana of the polar Plateau.
It grew so bitter cold that the chill ate even through their furs and air-proofed clothing. The canvas curtains were hoisted for a short distance to keep off the freezing gale. They dared not set them fully for fear they might act as sails and drive the ship before the gale so fast that all control would be lost.
At ten o'clock Frank, his hands frozen almost rigid, surrendered the wheel to Harry.
It now began to snow. Not a heavy snowfall but a sort of frozen flurry more like hail in its texture. Frank glanced at his watch.
Eleven o'clock.
"How's she headed?" shouted Harry, above the song of the polar gale.
"Due south," was the short reply as the other boy bent over the compass.