Read Antarctica for Free Online Page B

lingered in his mind.
    He rubbed his jaw where it hurt. That was real, too, but it was Colin who’d done that damage, not Papa, not a skull.
    Andrew had been thinking a lot about Papa lately. About whether Papa knew what had happened to Mother, whether he’d heard about this trip. Whether he cared.
    The whole time Mother had been married to Jack—four years—Papa hadn’t called once. Not once. When Mother died, Andrew had telephoned him twice through the Boston operator. He reached the butler each time and left messages, but you never knew with butlers.
    Andrew hoped Papa would come to the funeral, but he hadn’t. Nor had Gram and Gramps. They hadn’t spoken to Mother since she’d left Papa for Jack. Just cut her off, as if she’d never been their daughter.
    Andrew shook away the thoughts. No use dwelling on them. You can’t control the past.
    He pushed away the flimsy sheet that passed for a curtain across his bunk. Through a nearby porthole he could see hints of the dawn struggling to break through the thick sea mist. Dawn came early in this part of the world. Already they were approaching the Antarctic Circle, tilted toward the sun at such an angle that the darkness fell barely two or three hours. Mansfield, the second in command, had reported seeing chunks of ice in the water.
    Andrew threw back his blanket and stood to see the wall clock. Ten after three. He’d been asleep two and a half hours.
    Standing up made his jaw throb—but despite the pain, he felt grateful. The punch had only glanced him. Had Colin made full contact, the Mystery might have had its first casualty.
    He peered into the bunk above him. Colin was still asleep. Just about everyone was asleep, it seemed. The cabin resounded with snores and wheezes, human and canine. On the floor, Kosta slept with the dogs. Next to him was Socrates, a protective paw draped over his rag doll. It was a funny-looking little man wearing a tall red hat with a long tassel, a short puffy white skirt, and shoes with pompons. His name was Evzonos; Kosta proudly claimed that his outfit was standard for Greek soldiers.
    Which could explain why the Greeks were no longer a world power.
    Andrew tried to doze, but Barth’s yelling was too loud. The man was as good-humored as a porcupine. Hardly anyone was immune to his tongue-lashings, and he never seemed to sleep.
    Andrew could make out some claptrap about an “egregious violation of the maritime code.” Barth loved his maritime code. According to Kennedy, he slept with it under his pillow.
    Colin peered down from his bunk. “Are you up?”
    “I am now,” Andrew replied.
    “Who is that up there with Barth?”
    “How should I know?” Andrew asked.
    “You must know something.”
    “Last night you promised Pop you’d be decent to me.”
    “I was decent. I was just stating a fact. You must know something.”
    “You haven’t lost any of your hateful qualities overnight.”
    “Thank you.”
    Colin pulled on some clothes, pulled open his bunk curtain sheet, and climbed out. Without a word to Andrew, he slid down and walked toward the hatch.
    No use trying to sleep now. Andrew dressed and ascended the hatch stairs behind his stepbrother.
    Jack was abovedecks, too. “I checked the stores,” he said to Captain Barth. “It seems this young man has helped himself for quite a few days down there.”
    “In the old days we would throw people like you overboard,” Barth growled. “As excess steerage.”
    Andrew closed the hatch behind him, gaping at the scene by the starboard railing.
    Jack and Barth were facing two men. One was Philip. But the other was a stranger, short and wiry, wearing loose, disheveled clothing. He had a ruddy, pugnacious face that didn’t flinch under Barth’s verbal assault.
    “I assure you, sir,” Philip said, “Nigel is my dear friend. He’s quite … seaworthy and should prove a jolly companion to all—”
    “I don’t care if he’s Horace Putney himself,” Barth said. “I hold