Chapter I: Hijacked

It all happened absolutely without warning.

The seventy-five-foot motor-yacht Miami was anchored not far from Belle Isle, off the Newfoundland coast. Her owner, Tom Jones, had just obtained his S.B., _summa cum laude_, from Harvard, and was taking a well-deserved summer rest, _en route_ to visit some friends in Grenfell's colony in Labrador, before hanging out his shingle as a consulting engineer in the fall. At the moment, he sat in the shade of the pilot-house of his boat, with one of the crew, both fishing for tautog. The other member of the crew was polishing up the twin-six engines.

The navigator, Captain Antone Pease Ferreira, lay in the bunk room, dozing. Ferreira's sixteen-year-old tomboy daughter, who had come on the cruise with her father, was at the moment helping the Chink cook in the galley. The ship's cat lay in the sun on the deck. The Harvard Yacht Club flag flapped lazily at the masthead. All was blissfully peaceful.

The motor of another boat could be heard not far away. Then that sound ceased, and all was still again. There came a dull thump somewhere behind them, and the Miami trembled.

"Mike," announced the young owner of the Miami, "that sounds as though something bumped us. Will you go and see?"

Mike Murphy, a Cambridge cop whom Jones had laughingly invited to join his crew, arose, handed his fish line to his employer, stretched himself, and ambled off around the pilot-house. Several minutes passed without his return, so Tom Jones finally hitched both lines to a cleat, and went to see what was keeping Mike.

As he rounded the pilot-house he was met by a strange young man holding an automatic as if he were quite used to doing so.

"Stick 'em up!" commanded the other, and Tom promptly obeyed. The hijacker, if such he was, had a rather likable face, now set in stern enough lines. He seemed about Tom's own age. He had wavy black hair, a small black mustache; his complexion was dark, but smooth and clear save for a long, rather distinguished-looking scar across his right cheek bone.

On one side of him stood a thick-Set, sinister, sour-visaged Italian. On the other side stood a small, middle-aged, wizened, horsy individual. All three looked like city gangsters to him.

* * * * *

Mike Murphy lay, bound and gagged, in the scuppers. Lashed to the rail was a craft slightly smaller than the Miami, and from it a villainous-looking crew were busily unloading packing boxes labeled "Canned Goods."

"What's the great idea?" Tom Jones demanded indignantly, but with his hands still held high.

"Our boat is leaking like a sieve, so we thought we'd change ships," succinctly replied the scar-faced man.

"Then why didn't you ask for help like a gentleman?" said Tom, "I'd gladly have given you a lift."

The only answer was a snort. Then, "Frisk him, boys."

In a few moments Tom Jones, bound and gagged, was lying beside Mike Murphy in the scuppers.

The unloading of the "canned goods" proceeded rapidly; then one of the intruders ran a fuse into the gas-tank of their deserted ship, lit the fuse, and cast their ship off, at the mercy of the strong tide. Several minutes later, after drifting quite a distance, it exploded with a dull _boom_.

The Miami's engines were started, and she headed out to sea. Scarface and the heavy Italian then returned to where Tom and Mike still lay bound.

"Better bump 'em off, boss," the Italian was saying, as they approached.

"Too crude, Nick," replied the other. "We may need them to put up a front for us, if that British Navy boat that chased us in the Gulf of St. Lawrence ever gets on the trail again."

"Navy?" thought Tom to himself, "Since when has the British Navy been chasing rum-runners?"

Scarface continued, "We mustn't miss a single bet in getting these guns safely to Costa Rica."

So that was it? Gun-running, rather than rum-running. Filibusters, not bootleggers. Why, Tom thought, he might even consider joining in an expedition like this himself. Filibusters! Latin-American revolutions! Soft southern skies! Beautiful _señoritas_! Glamour! Intrigue! Excitement! What young college graduate would not take a flyer at some Richard Harding Davis filibustering?

He could not fail to observe that no one was offering him such a chance. He was no longer the rich owner of a palatial yacht; he was merely a prisoner of ruthless men who ignored him. He felt suddenly very small and unimportant.

The leader went on, "Untie the Chink and the cabin boy, and make them get us some grub, Nick. And send some one to stow these two in the bunk room."

And he strode forward to the pilot-house. Nick lumbered aft to the galley.

The mention of "cabin boy" brought the young college man to a sudden realization of Theresa Ferreira's predicament. Well, she would be as safe as the rest of them so long as these thugs thought her a boy. Lucky that she was wearing sailor breeches and a loose sailor blouse. With this costume and her boyish bob, it might be some time before this piratical gang found out her sex.

These thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of four burly members of the hijacking crew, who picked up the two bound captives and carried them below. As they passed through the mess-room, Tom saw the horsy little man twiddling with the controls of his nine-tube radio.

In the bunk room lay Captain Ferreira and Si Greene, the other member of Jones's crew, both bound and gagged. Tom and Mike were heaved unceremoniously into the bunks, and were left there, still tied.

An hour or so later food was brought them, and they were ungagged and partially unbound, so that they might eat. But the men who served them refused to answer any of their questions. After the meal, they were bound again.

Still later the Italian named Nick came, and asked them which was the engine-man. Informed that it was Si Greene, Nick released him and led him out. It seemed that one of the motors was behaving badly, and their own men couldn't fix it.

* * * * *

The boat had begun to pitch and roll, indicating rough weather outside. Scarface came in, jauntily attired in one of Tom's own yachting costumes. He looked almost a gentleman in that outfit. The change in him was startling.

He untied Captain Ferreira. At this, his lieutenant, Nick, who had joined him, protested.

"Don't let too many of them loose, boss," said he.

"It looks like a storm," replied his chief, "and Little Arty has picked up by radio another Navy boat that's on our trail. We need an expert to run the Miami now."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," grumbled Nick, and then the two left with Ferreira.

How long the storm continued Tom never knew or cared. It could have been days or weeks. The Miami pitched and rolled. Tom, who had thought himself a sailor, was frightfully seasick and utterly indifferent to his surroundings.

When at last he came to, he found that he was no longer tied. Weakly he made his way on deck.

It was a strange and unexpected sight that met his eye. The Miami lay wedged in a floe of ice! And the air was bitterly cold.

Murphy came hobbling up, a pair of handcuffs on his ankles. They were his own handcuffs, mementos of the days when he had been a genial, hard-drinking Cambridge policeman and a favorite with Tom Jones's Harvard crowd.

"Where are we, Mike?" asked Tom, bewildered.

The Irishman scratched his head.

"I haven't been loose myself very long," he replied, "but as near as I can figure out, we've been blown way north in that divil of a storm, and are somewhere up near the top of Greenland. I heard Ferreira mention Smith's Sound."

Then the cold air drove them both below again.

In the mess-room Little Arty was tuning in Tom's radio-set. Nick Fratelli was paging through a pile of Tom's magazines. Four tough-looking men of diversified nationality were playing poker with Tom's best pack of cards. Every one seemed perfectly at home. The owner of the Miami felt almost like an intruder on his own boat. He sat down heavily in a corner, and dully watched the game. Little Arty gave him a friendly grin, and Nick Fratelli glowered at him over his magazines, but no one else paid him the least attention.

Mike Murphy, his own man, came over and sat with him, and explained the situation briefly as follows: These men were part of the gang of Scarface Boston Jimmy. They had taken a contract to run a boatload of rifles and ammunition from Canada to Central America, but had been intercepted, driven off their course, and quite badly shot up when the naval patrol got wind of their scheme. So they had exchanged their own sinking ship for the Miami. But they had not dared buck that terrific storm, and now were lost somewhere in the frozen north.

Tom glanced around the room. The hijackers did not look particularly dangerous or vicious now; and Tom, who had been tensing himself for an instant clash, made up his mind to appear matter-of-fact and peaceful as he watched for an opening to turn the tables on his captors. Though there was little enough advantage to be gained now, imprisoned together in the ice as they all were.

Then Captain Ferreira came in.

"Well, well, well!" said the bluff old sea dog. "Glad to see you up again. We're stuck in the Arctic ice."

"So I see," replied Tom, a bit coldly. Then suddenly, "How's Terry?"

"_He's_ all right," said her father, with the accent on the "he."

So their captors hadn't yet discovered Theresa's sex. Good!

That evening both crowds ate together. Ferreira, Terry, and Si Greene seemed quite at home among the intruders. Scarface was genial, though reserved. Only Nick Fratelli and one other--a bullet-headed Dutchman--remained sullenly aloof.

Then, because their clocks showed it to be night-time, although the Arctic sun was still shining, they turned in. Tom slept in the bunk room with the crew, instead of in his own palatial stateroom, which had been usurped by the masterful Scarface.

* * * * *

The next day the ice began to loosen, but unfortunately it drifted north, carrying the Miami with it. The south wind stiffened. Antone Ferreira called all hands on deck, to fend off ice. He was determined to make a frantic attempt to nose their way south through the drifting floe.

The Portuguese was in his element. He stood in the bow of the boat and took command. Scarface Boston Jimmy stood beside him, backing up the captain's authority. Tom Jones manned the wheel in the pilot-house, glad to have a hand in the running of his own boat once more. Si Greene tended the gasoline engines. The rest of the party were on deck, fending off the chunks of ice. Even Terry and Charley Loy, the Chinese cook, lent a hand. Every one helped except Tabby, the ship's cat.

Night came--that is to say, night-time, for now they were at a latitude where the sun never set, at that season of the year, but merely circled the heavens, so night and day were divided off arbitrarily for them by the clock. It was time for them to turn in and rest, yet still they struggled on. The crew, enervated by seasickness and loafing, wanted to quit and call it a day, but Captain Ferreira insisted that it wasn't safe to quit.

However, he encouraged them with the prospect that the wind might die down at any moment and give them a chance to rest.

"If it doesn't," muttered Nick the Rat under his breath, "there's going to be trouble."

The crew groaned, grumbled, and finally threatened. The unfailing good humor and merry disposition of the supposed cabin boy kept up their spirits for a while, but at last even the effect of this lessened. Scarface cheered them on, and finally drove them with his dominating force.

But they were tired and cold. Although the sun did not set, yet it was very low. The sky was overcast, and the wind chill.

The sea was black and ominous. A dark fog arose, out of which fantastic white shapes of ice would suddenly ride into the beams of their searchlights and threaten to overwhelm them. The whole effect was ghastly.

Finally Nick Fratelli threw down his pole and announced defiantly, "I quit!"

Captain Ferreira was horrified. "Damn it, this is mutiny!"

"I think not," remarked Scarface quietly, "Nick, are you working or leaving the ship?"

There was no note of pleading in his tone, merely a calm assurance. A hush fell over the entire boat, as every one else stopped work and watched the two.

Nick stood, still defiant, hands on hips, facing his chief. Scarface stared back, a slightly amused smile on his lips.

Nick had crossed wills with his chief many times before, but never successfully. This time he was determined to make it stick.

Just then a huge piece of ice, the largest yet that night, loomed suddenly ahead, a bit to starboard. Ferreira shouted an order. Tom swung the wheel hard-a-starboard. But still the cake bore down on them.

"All hands ward off that iceberg," shouted Scarface Jimmy, and there was a general rush to the bow.

When the excitement was over, they noticed that Nick too was among them, holding his pole; it was the end of the mutiny.

* * * * *

It was not long until Captain Ferreira announced, "Wind's dying down. It's likely to stop any moment now. Come on, boys, only a little more work to-night."

Encouraged by these words, all hands fell to and slaved like beavers. The Miami zigzagged ahead through the now almost stagnant but rapidly packing ice.

Presently Ferreira looked overside, stared aloft, and said, "Wind's down. All right, boys, we can't do any more to-night."

The ice was tightly packed around them again.

The order to go below was received with a weary cheer. But the rise in spirits was only momentary. They were all cold, exhausted, disgusted, their nerves at the breaking-point.

The next day was Friday, and there came staggering toward them across the ice a half-starved Eskimo. These two events may seem to have no connection with each other, but when they took the poor native aboard it led to their naming him--as had Robinson Crusoe--after the day on which he was found. They fed him and adopted him into the party, not alone from humanitarian motives, but likewise because his knowledge of Arctic life might come in handy. The dour and unfriendly Nick Fratelli even volunteered to teach him English.

* * * * *

Shortly thereafter a large crack developed in the ice. But the crack led only northward from there, and they wanted to go south. To the south was only unbroken ice.

Scarface, however, hated inaction.

"We'll go northward," said he. "I've heard that there's an open sea at the north pole. Perhaps we may be able to get out of that sea some other way."

Captain Ferreira assented, though for a different reason.

"We might even reach the pole," said he. "I used to dream of reaching the pole, when I was a boy on whaling voyages, but we never got even as far north as this."

"At least we won't meet any patrol boats up here," added Nick.

Soon the Miami was chugging northward.

Their progress was rapid--surprisingly so. The crack got wider and wider. But all this was leading them away from anywhere, into the unknown, and there were angry murmurs.

Then Scarface called them all together and made a startling announcement.

Said he, "I've been checking up on our speed and comparing it with the latitude readings which Captain Ferreira has been jotting down in the logbook."

"What's latitude?" asked the filibuster named Cicero.

"Aw, it's those lines on a map," snorted Little Arty.

Nick Fratelli glowered.

"Right, Arty," continued Scarface. "Well, those lines on the map mark off about seventy miles of distance to each degree of latitude, and our results don't check at all. We are making about twelve miles to a degree instead of seventy."

"I've noticed that, and worried about it," interjected the ship captain.

"Well, don't worry any more," replied Scarface Boston Jimmy, with a reassuring smile, "for I've found the answer in a book."

"Nautical Almanac?" asked Ferreira hopefully.

"No. ARGOSY. I found some old copies in my cabin. There's a story I've been reading, about two young Milwaukee aviators who flew up to discover the north pole, and found a hole several hundred miles across, instead of a pole. The hole leads down into the center of the earth. The rapid curvature of the edge of that hole accounts for the fact that our latitude and our mileage don't check up. We think we are nearly at the pole, when really we're merely near the edge of that hole. See, here's a diagram of it in the magazine. That would explain it, wouldn't it, Jones?"

* * * * *

The young Harvard man and several of the others crowded around to look at the picture. But most of the men were frankly uninterested.

Nick Fratelli smiled craftily to himself. In browsing through the magazines he too had run across this story, and had spelled out enough of it to form a theory as to where they were bound for. He had made some very definite plans for himself in this connection, but these plans he was keeping under his cap.

Tom Jones, in reply to their leader's question, reluctantly admitted that, if such an absurd state of affairs as a polar orifice were possible, it undoubtedly would explain the discrepancy between their mileage and their apparent latitude.

Then Scarface read to the crowd enough snatches from "The Radio Flyers" to give every one an idea of the author's theory of the polar hole, and the lost race of Vikings that inhabit the land inside the earth.

"Boys," he announced, "perhaps our getting blown north is going to let us in on a rich racket! I've a notion to try and go down through this hole in the top of the earth. There's enough rifles and ammunition to arm us all. The boat has its two machine guns, and most of us have gats. Listen to how the story ends."

Then he read:

"Here is the land of eternal warmth, where the sun always shines. Here there is rich soil, big game, room for all. Here we have found power, adventure, happiness. We, Vikings, greet you of the outer wall. _Skoal!_"

But Tom Jones smiled a superior smile to himself. What gullible creatures these men were! He, as the only educated person in the party, knew that the story of the polar hole was mere absurd fiction.

All that day the Miami sped along. The wind was from the south, and the air was full of driving snow.

With the low hang of the sun, the clouded sky, and the thick drive of the snow, there was scarcely more light than at twilight back home, and what light there was had an ominous yellow-green color. Huge cakes of ice kept bobbing up unexpectedly to menace them, out of the wall of snowflakes which surrounded them. The searchlights were tried, but they only seemed to draw the wall closer, so they were shut off again.

Gradually the snow fall lessened. The obstructing ice cakes seemed farther and farther apart. Suddenly the sun shone upon them from dead ahead, the last flakes fluttered down, and in front of them was open water, stretching as far as the horizon.

The captain took a sextant-reading.

"Boys," he announced, "at this rate, we shall be at the pole in a few hours."

"Aw, forget it," sneered Nick Fratelli. "You guys read so much, and yet you can't remember for even a few hours that there ain't no north pole. Didn't the boss tell us that there ain't no pole? Even I have got that through my thick head."

"You're right, Nick," agreed Scarface, "both as to the pole and as to your head. There's nothing in either."

Nick Fratelli glowered.

As they sped along, the captain took frequent observations; and finally he announced: "We may not be at the north pole, but at least we're where the north pole would be if there were any such place. We're at 90° latitude."

A cheer went up from the crew, but Nick the Rat sneered again: "Aw, forget it. If they was any pole, it wouldn't be here. It would be way out ahead of us in the middle of the big hole we're bound for."

"Well, anyhow," commented Tom Jones, "if there is a pole, that's where we are now; and, if there isn't, we have an amazing adventure awaiting us inside the earth!"