"What; me lose an opportunity to see the South Pole, to shoot Polar
bears--"
"There aren't any," put in Billy.
"Wall, whatever kind of critters there are there," went on the old
man, "no, sir; Ben Stubbs ain't the man to hold back on a venture like
this. Sign me on as bos'n, and if I don't help nail Uncle Sam's colors
to the South Pole call me a doodle-bug."
"A doodle-bug," exclaimed Professor Sandburr, "What kind of a bug is
that? If you know where to find them I hope you will catch one and
forward it to me."
Ben grinned.
"I guess doodle-bugs is like South Polar bears," he said.
"How is that, my dear sea-faring friend?"
"There ain't any," laughed Ben, blotting his big, scrawling signature
on the ship's books.
On and on toward the Pole plied the Southern Cross. One night when she
was about two hundred miles at sea off the mouth of the Amazon, the
boys, as it was one of the soft tropical nights peculiar to those
regions, were all grouped forward trying to keep cool and keeping a
sharp lookout for the real Southern Cross. This wonderful, heavenly
body might be expected to be visible almost any night now, Captain
Hazzard had told them.
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