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I had arrived at the Daily Chronicle office from some country place when E. A. Perris, the news editor, now the managing editor, said in a casual way:

“There’s a fellow named Doctor Cook who has discovered the North Pole. He may arrive at Copenhagen to-morrow. Lots of other men have the start of you, but see if you can get some kind of a story.”

I uttered the usual groan, obtained a bag of gold from the cashier, and set out for Copenhagen by way of the North Sea. On a long and tiresome journey I repeated the name “Doctor Cook,” lest I should forget it, wondered if I knew anything about Arctic exploration, and decided I didn’t, and accepted the probability that I should be too late to find the great explorer, and shouldn’t know what to ask him if I found him.

I arrived in Copenhagen dirty, tired, and headachy in the evening. I wanted above all things a cup of strong coffee, and with the German language, communicated my desire to a taxi driver. He took me to a rather low-looking café, filled with men and women and tobacco smoke. That was my second stroke of luck, for if I had not gone to that particular café I should never have met Doctor Cook in the way that happened.