As he spoke several of the men recklessly jerked a plane to free it from its wrappings.  The Major, his back to them, was superintending the unloading of the Liberty motor.

“Hey, you!  Go easy there!” Barney sprang forward impulsively and showed the workmen how to handle the plane.  When the job was done he stepped back with an apologetic air.  The Major had turned and was watching him.

“You seem to understand such matters,” he smiled.

“I’ve worked with them a bit,” said Barney.

“Would you mind letting me know where you are located?” asked the Major.  “My aviator and mechanic have disappointed me so far.  You might be of some assistance to me.”

“We’re over at the bookkeeping shack—­the office of the construction company,” said Barney, red with embarrassment.  “He—­that is, my bunkie here, knows more about those boats than I do.  Say, if we can be any help to you, we’ll jump at the chance.  Won’t we, Bruce?”

“Surest thing,” grinned Bruce, as they turned regretfully toward the dull office and duller work.

“Say, you don’t suppose,” exclaimed Barney that night at supper—­“you remember those awful wide planes of the Major’s?  You don’t suppose he’s starting for—­” Barney hesitated.

“You don’t mean?—­” Bruce hesitated in turn.

“Sure!  The Pole; you don’t suppose he’d try it?”

“Of course not,” exclaimed Bruce, the conservative.  “Who ever thought of going to the Pole in a plane through Canada?”

“Bartlett’s got a plan of going to the Pole in a plane.”

“But he’s going from Greenland,” said Bruce.  “That’s different.”

“Why”

“Steamboat.  Farthest point of land north and everything.”

“That’s just it,” exclaimed Barney disgustedly.  “Steamboat and everything.  You’re not a real explorer unless some society backs you up with somebody’s money to the tune of fifty thousand or so; till you’ve got together a group of scholars and seamen for the voyage.  Then the proper thing to do is to get caught in the ice, you are all but lost.  But—­the ice clears at the crucial moment, you push on and on for two years; you live on seal meat and whale blubber.  Half your seamen get scurvy and die; your dogs go mad; your Eskimos prove treacherous, you shoot one or more.  You take long sled journeys, you freeze, you starve, you erect cairns at your farthest point north, or west, or whatever it is.  Then, if you’re lucky, you lose your ship in an ice-jam and walk home, ragged and emaciated.  A man that does it that way gets publicity; writes a book, gets to be somebody.

“You see,” he went on, “we’ve sort of got in the way of thinking that it takes a big expedition to do exploring.  But, after all, what good does a big expedition do?  Peary didn’t need one.  He landed at the Pole with two Eskimos and a negro.  Well, now it ought to be easy as nothing for two or three men in a plane, like that one of the Major’s, to go to the Pole from here.  There’s a fort and trading post on Great Bear Lake with, maybe, a power-boat and gasoline.  Then, if there happened to be a whaler, or something, to give you a second lift, why there you are!”