The first—­and chief—­is that tempest of words which I heard at Kensington from that big-mouthed Mackay on the Sunday night.  What was it that led me, busy as I was, to that chapel that night?  Well, perhaps I know.

There I sat, and heard him:  and most strangely have those words of his peroration planted themselves in my brain, when, rising to a passion of prophecy, he shouted:  ’And as in the one case, transgression was followed by catastrophe swift and universal, so, in the other, I warn the entire race to look out thenceforth for nothing from God but a lowering sky, and thundery weather.’

And this second thing I remember:  that on reaching home, I walked into my disordered library (for I had had to hunt out some books), where I met my housekeeper in the act of rearranging things.  She had apparently lifted an old Bible by the front cover to fling it on the table, for as I threw myself into a chair my eye fell upon the open print near the beginning.  The print was very large, and a shaded lamp cast a light upon it.  I had been hearing Mackay’s wild comparison of the Pole with the tree of Eden, and that no doubt was the reason why such a start convulsed me:  for my listless eyes had chanced to rest upon some words.

‘The woman gave me of the tree, and I did eat....’

And a third thing I remember in all that turmoil of doubt and flurry:  that as the ship moved down with the afternoon tide a telegram was put into my hand; it was a last word from Clodagh; and she said only this: 

‘Be first—­for Me.’

* * * * *

The Boreal left St. Katherine’s Docks in beautiful weather on the afternoon of the 19th June, full of good hope, bound for the Pole.

All about the docks was one region of heads stretched far in innumerable vagueness, and down the river to Woolwich a continuous dull roar and murmur of bees droned from both banks to cheer our departure.

The expedition was partly a national affair, subvented by Government:  and if ever ship was well-found it was the Boreal.  She had a frame tougher far than any battle-ship’s, capable of ramming some ten yards of drift-ice; and she was stuffed with sufficient pemmican, codroe, fish-meal, and so on, to last us not less than six years.

We were seventeen, all told, the five Heads (so to speak) of the undertaking being Clark (our Chief), John Mew (commander), Aubrey Maitland (meteorologist), Wilson (electrician), and myself (doctor, botanist, and assistant meteorologist).

The idea was to get as far east as the 100 deg., or the 120 deg., of longitude; to catch there the northern current; to push and drift our way northward; and when the ship could no further penetrate, to leave her (either three, or else four, of us, on ski), and with sledges drawn by dogs and reindeer make a dash for the Pole.

This had also been the plan of the last expedition—­that of the Nix—­and of several others.  The Boreal only differed from the Nix, and others, in that she was a thing of nicer design, and of more exquisite forethought.