will give him influenza,” said the Russian.
“That is not the question,” said the Major. “For some reason or other, this North Polar Practical Association—mark the word ‘Practical,’ gentlemen—wishes to buy four hundred and seven thousand square miles round the North Pole, from the eighty-fourth—”
“We know all that,” said Professor Harald. “But what we want to know is, what do these people want to do with these territories, if they are territories, or these seas, if they are seas—”
“That is not the question,” said Donellan. “Here is a company proposing to purchase a portion of the globe which, by its geographical position, seems to belong to Canada.”
“To Russia,” said Karkof.
“To Holland,” said Jansen.
“To Scandinavia,” said Harald.
“To Denmark,” said Baldenak.
“Gentlemen!” said Todrin, “excuse me, but that is not the question. By our presence here we have admitted the principle that the circumpolar territories can be put up to auction, and become the property of the highest bidder. Now, as you have powers to draw to a certain amount, why should you not join forces and control such a sum as the Baltimore company will find it impossible to beat?”
The delegates looked at one another. A syndicate of syndicates! In these days we syndicate as unconcernedly as we breathe, as we drink, as we eat, as we sleep. Why not syndicate still further?
But there was an objection, or rather an explanation was necessary, and Jansen interpreted the feeling of the meeting when he asked—
“And after?”
Yes! After?
“But it seems to me that Canada—” said Donellan.
“And Russia—” said Karkof.
“And Holland—” said Jansen.
“And Denmark—” said Baldenak.
“Don’t quarrel, gentlemen,” said Todrin. “What is the good? Let us form our syndicate.”
“And after?” said Harald.
“After?” said Todrin. “Nothing can be simpler, gentlemen. When you have bought the property it will remain indivisible among you, and then for adequate compensation you can transfer it to one of the syndicates we represent; but the Baltimore company will be out of it.”
It was a good proposal, at least for the moment, for in the future the delegates could quarrel among themselves for the final settlement. Anyway, as Todrin had justly remarked, the Baltimore company would be out of it.
“That seems sensible,” said Baldenak.
“Clever,” said Karkof.
“Artful,” said Harald.
“Sly,” said Jansen.
“Quite Canadian,” said Donellan.
“And so, gentlemen,” said Karkof, “it is perfectly understood that if we form a syndicate the rights of each will be entirely reserved.”
“Agreed.”
It only remained to discover what sums had been placed to the credit of the delegates by the several associations which amounts when totalled would probably exceed anything at the disposal of the North Polar Practical people.
The question was asked by Todrin.
But then came a change over the scene. There was complete silence. No one would reply. Open his purse, empty his pocket into the common cash-box, tell in advance how much he had to bid with—there was no hurry to do that! And if disagreement arose later on, if circumstances obliged the delegates to look after themselves, if the diplomatic Karkof were to feel hurt at the little wiles of Jansen, who might take offence at the clumsy artifices of Baldenak, who, in turn, became irritated at the ingenuities of Harald, who might decline to support the pretentious claims of Donellan, who would find himself compelled to intrigue against all his colleagues individually and collectively—to proclaim the length of their purses was to reveal their game, which above all things they desired to keep dark.
Obviously there were only two ways of answering Todrin’s indiscreet demand. They might exaggerate their resources, which would be embarrassing when they had to put the money down; or they might minimize them in such a way as to turn the proposition into a joke.
This idea occurred to the Dutchman.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I regret that for the acquisition of the Arctic regions I am unable to dispose of more than fifty gulden.”
“And,” said the Russian, “all I have to venture is thirty-five roubles.”
“I have twenty kroner,” said Harald.
“I have only fifteen,” said Baldenak.
“Well,” said the Major, “it is evident that the profit in this matter will be yours, for all I have at my disposal is the miserable sum of thirty cents.”
CHAPTER III.
THE NORTH POLE IS KNOCKED DOWN TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER.
That the sale of the 3rd of December should take place in the Auction Mart might appear strange. As a rule, only furniture, instruments, pictures, and objects of art were sold there. But for this curious departure from the ordinary practice in the sale of land a precedent was discoverable, as already a portion of our planet had changed hands under the hammer.
A few years before, at San Francisco, in California, an island in the Pacific Ocean, Spencer Island, had been sold to the rich W. W. Kolderup, when he outbid J. R. Taskinar, of Stockton.[1] Spencer Island was habitable; it was only a few degrees from the Californian coast; it had forests, watercourses, a fertile soil, and fields and prairies fit for cultivation; it was not an indefinite region, covered perhaps with sea and perpetual ice, which probably no one would ever occupy. For Spencer Island four hundred thousand dollars had been paid; for the polar territories it was not to be expected that anything like that amount would be forthcoming.
1. See “Godfrey Morgan,” by the same author.
Nevertheless, the strangeness of the affair had brought together a considerable crowd, chiefly of lookers-on, to witness the result. The sale was to take place at noon, and all the morning the traffic in Bolton Street was seriously interfered with. Long before the hour fixed for the sale the room was full, with the exception of a few seats railed off and reserved for the delegates; and when Baldenak, Karkof, Jansen, Harald, Donellan, and Todrin had taken these places, they formed a compact group, shoulder to shoulder, and looked as if they were a veritable storming column ready for the assault of the Pole.
Close to them was the consignee of codfish, whose vulgar
