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 visage expressed the sublimest indifference. He looked the least excited of all the crowd, and seemed to be thinking only of how he could most profitably dispose of the cargoes now on their way to him from Newfoundland. Who were the capitalists represented by this man, with probably millions of dollars at his command?
There was nothing to show that J. T. Maston and Mrs. Scorbitt had anything to do with the affair. How could it be supposed that they had? They were there, though, but lost in the crowd, and were surrounded by a few of the principal members of the Gun Club, apparently simply as spectators and quite disinterested. William S. Forster seemed to have not the least knowledge of their existence.
As it was impossible to hand round the North Pole for the purposes of examination, a large map of the Arctic regions had been hung behind the auctioneer’s desk. Seventeen degrees above the Arctic Circle a broad red line around the eighty-fourth parallel marked off the portion of the globe which the North Polar Practical Association had brought to the hammer. According to the map, the region was occupied by a sea covered with an ice-cap of considerable thickness. But that was the affair of the purchasers. At least, no one could complain that they had been deceived as to the nature of the goods.
As twelve o’clock struck, the auctioneer, Andrew R. Gilmour, entered by a little door behind his desk. He surveyed the assembly for an instant through his glasses, and then, calling for silence by a tap from his hammer, he addressed the crowd as follows:—
“Gentlemen, I have been instructed by the Federal Government to offer for sale a property situated at the North Pole, bounded by the eighty-fourth parallel of latitude, and consisting of certain continents and seas, either solid or liquid—but which I am not quite sure. Kindly cast your eyes on this map. It has been compiled according to the latest information. You will see that the area is approximately four hundred and seven thousand square miles. To facilitate the sale it has been decided that the biddings for this extensive region shall be made per square mile. You will therefore understand that every cent bid will represent in round numbers 407,000 cents, and every dollar 407,000 dollars. I must ask you to be silent, gentlemen, if you please.”
The appeal was not superfluous, for the impatience of the public was producing a gradually-increasing tumult that would drown the voices of the bidders.
When tolerable quietness had been established thanks to the intervention of Flint, the auctioneer’s porter, who roared like a siren on a foggy day, Gilmour continued—
“Before we begin the biddings, I think it right to remind you of three things. The property has only one boundary, that of the eighty-fourth degree of north latitude. It has a guaranteed title. And it will remain the property of the purchasers, no matter what geographical or meteorological modifications the future may produce.”
Always this curious observation!
“Now, gentlemen,” said Gilmour; “what offers?” and, giving his hammer a preliminary shake, he continued in a vibrating nasal tone, “We will start at ten cents the square mile.”
Ten cents, the tenth of a dollar, meant 40,700 dollars for the lot.
Whether Gilmour had a purchaser at this price or not, the amount was quickly increased by Baldenak.
“Twenty cents!” he said.
“Thirty cents!” said