"And be dashed to destruction as we reach it?" the professor finished for him.
Brave as they were, the adventurers gave a shudder that was not born of the gnawing cold as the possibility occurred to them. Frank glanced at the barograph. Fifteen hundred feet. They were then holding their own in altitude. This was a cheering sign.
Ten minutes to twelve.
The strange lights began to reappear. Glowing in fantastic forms they seemed alive with lambent fire. As the boys gazed at each other they could see that their features were tinted with the weird fires of the polar sky.
Twelve o'clock.
Frank gave a hurried dash toward the compass and drew back with a shout.
"Look," he shouted, "we are within the polar influence."
The needle of the instrument was spinning round and round at an almost perpendicular angle in the binnacle with tremendous velocity. The pointer tore round its points like the hands of a crazy clock.
"What does it mean?" quavered Harry.
"The South Pole, or as near to it as we are ever likely to get," exclaimed Frank, peering over the side.