The Boy Aviators' Polar Dash; Or, Facing Death in the Antarctic

"Oh, it's southward ho, where the breezes blow; we're off for the pole, yo, ho heave ho " "Is that you, Harry?" asked a lad of about seventeen, without looking up from some curious-looking frames and apparatus over which he was working in the garage workshop back of his New York home on Madison Avenue. "Ay ay my hearty," responded his brother, giving his trousers a nautical hitch; "you seem to have forgotten that to-day is the day we are to see the polar ship." "Not likely," exclaimed Frank Chester, flinging down his wrench and passing his hand through a mop of curly hair; "what time is it?"