“Wrong! no, lad, there’s nothing wrong. On the contrary, everything is right. Why, where do you think we have got to?”
“A hundred and fifty miles from the Pole,” said Alf.
“Less, less,” said Leo, with an excited look.
“We are not more,” said the Captain slowly, as he took off his hat and wiped his brow, “not more than a hundred and forty miles from it.”
“Then we could be there in three days or sooner, with a good breeze,” cried Benjy, whose enthusiasm was aroused.
“Ay, Ben, if there was nothing in the way; but it’s quite clear from what Chingatok says, that we are drawing near to his native land, which cannot be more than fifty miles distant, if so much. You remember he has told us his home is one of a group of islands, some of which are large and some small; some mountainous and others flat and swampy, affording food and shelter to myriads of wild-fowl; so, you see, after we get there our progress northward through such a country, without roads or vehicles, won’t be at the rate of ten miles an hour by any means.”
“Besides,” added Leo, “it would not be polite to Chingatok’s countrymen if we were to leave them immediately after arriving. Perhaps they would not let us go, so I fear that we shan’t gain the end of our journey yet a while, but that does not matter much, for we’re sure to make it out at last.”
“What makes the matter more uncertain,” resumed the Captain, as they sauntered back to camp, “is the fact that this northern archipelago is peopled by different tribes of Eskimos, some of whom are of a warlike spirit and frequently give the others trouble. However, Chingatok says we shall have no difficulty in reaching this Nothing—as he will insist on styling the Pole, ever since I explained to him that it was not a real but an imaginary point.”
“I wonder how Anders ever got him to understand what an imaginary point is,” said Benjy.
“That has puzzled me too,” returned the Captain, “but he did get it screwed into him somehow, and the result is—Nothing!”