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We have also a doctor, as protection against contingencies. His name is Coffin. He and the undertaker have been bosom friends for years. The combined influences of these are sufficient to insure proper termination to our trip, if not a propitious journey. The eldest of our company is rising fifty, the youngest twenty-one. The oldest has lived long enough to be convinced that gold is the key that unlocks all earthly treasures; his sole object is the key hidden somewhere in the pockets of the great Arctic. The youngest cares little for the gold, being more concerned about certain rare birds which may cross his devious path. The most of us have never met before, but are now an incorporated mining company, like hundreds of ship's crews this year. Each intends to do his share of work and to claim his portion of the profits, if profits come.

We have a two years' outfit of every comfort possible to store away on a little schooner seventy-two by eighteen feet. Her name is "Penelope;" you can read it in plain type half a mile away. She was built for Japan waters and has never set keel in Arctic seas. There are numerous prophecies concerning her: "She will never reach her destination;" "Impossible that she is built for a stormy coast;" "You may as well make your wills before you embark." And many other cheering benedictions are tossed to the deck by friends on shore who watch us loading the freight into her hold.