THE LIFE POLAR EXPEDITION

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At the Hop-off of LIFE’S Polar Expedition, Scarsdale, N. Y. (Second Lap)—Here we are, much to our surprise, all set for the second big lap on our expedition to the North Pole by bicycle, begun last spring. Those of you with a scientific turn of mind who have followed us thus far will remember that we were held up in my home in Scarsdale by a lost nut and that, by the time we were ready to start on again, news had come of the so-called successful completion of the Byrd and Amundsen expeditions.

The positive assurance that we had been beaten in the race to the Pole, with our goal practically within pedaling distance, as you might say, was naturally very depressing. Lieutenant-Commander Connelly took the thing particularly to heart, as he had so wanted us to be first. We found him that afternoon in the Bronx River Parkway, kicking a tree much bigger than himself and half-sobbing, half-laughing: “Darn-darn-double-darn!” and “You old tree, you!”

I myself was quite disheartened but tried not to show it to the brave boys who had come so far and had shown such splendid spirit. So I proposed that we go back to the house and sing some songs. I wish that you might have seen the will with which the rest of the crew took up my suggestion, and have heard the room ring with the sounds of “Upidee” and “Solomon Levi” when we finally got down to it. Both Lieutenant-Commander Connelly and Ensign Thermaline sang tenor.

It was Ensign Thermaline who finally spoke the words which gave us new courage to continue on our expedition in spite of the self-styled winners, Byrd and Amundsen.

“Why should we stop,” he asked, toppling off the piano bench, “just because some wise-cracking aviators have flown over the Pole? Our aim was not to fly. It was to bicycle. That popular interest in polar expeditions has died down should mean nothing to us. That the New York Times will not take any more expedition articles until it uses up those it has on hand means nothing to us. We can get to the Pole and back before the George Palmer Putnam series has even been got together in book form. We can still be the first to bicycle across the Pole—and, by the Eternal, we will!”

At this we were on our feet and cheering. Rosa brought in a plate of hermits and we sat over these until far into the night making plans for our second dash to the Pole.

It was decided that, since the Putnam expedition on the Morrissey was being written up by Mr. Putnam’s little boy David, we should take my little boy Bobby along as official yeoman and that all reports should be written by him. He is seven, and no one, not even his teacher, can read his writing; so he seemed practically ideal.

We also decided that we ought to have names for our bicycles (like the Putnam’s Morrissey), and Lieutenant-Commander Connelly immediately chose “The O’Toole” for his, and Ensign Thermaline “Mavourneen” for his. Mine was to be “The Banshee.”

The next thing to do was to buy a small bicycle for Bobby, and, believe it or not, it took until just this week to find one small enough. However, Scarsdale was very pleasant during the summer and we all were very happy and brave, and here we are ready to start tomorrow, “rain or shine,” as Lieutenant-Commander Connelly expressed it, laughing to hide his tears.

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Special North Pole Correspondence from Bobby Benchley, Juvenile Member of LIFE’S Bicycle Expedition. En route to Pole.

North White Plains, N. Y.—When we left Scarsdale on the second dash to the Pole my father told me that he would write the account of our trip and that I should sign my name to it, as every expedition has to have a little boy along who writes a book about it later.

“You write it and I sign it?” I asked him.

“That’s right, Bobby,” he said. “Daddy writes it and Bobby signs it and Bobby gets all the publicity.”

“Publicity me eye,” was my answer. “If I sign it, I write it. I’ll take no responsibility for your drivel. I know your stuff and I prefer to write my own, if you don’t mind. The rest of the school would kid the pants off me if one of your books came out with my name signed to it.”

This angered my father and he made as if to hit me, but I ducked and ran into the house.

“All right for you, you big bully!” I yelled out at him. “Just for that I won’t go on your old expedition.”

This sobered him up and he agreed to let me write my own stuff and sign it and take ten per cent. of the royalties. If the book sells as it ought to, with any kind of pushing at all from the publishers, I ought to clean up enough to marry Ruthie Henshel in the spring.

So here we are, as far as North White Plains, and very dull it has been up till now, too. We left Scarsdale at ten o’clock Wednesday morning, I on my new Demon with special coaster-brake attachment and a swell cap with a big visor on it to keep the Artic sun out of my eyes. It is my private opinion that all the Artic sun we see on this trip you could put in my right eye and I’d never notice it.

(Proofreading note by Benchley, Sr.—I told Bobby he ought to let me write out a rough draft for him first. You see what he has done with “Arctic.” However, if he is going to be just stubborn about the thing—)

The trouble with the expedition so far is that my father and Lieut.-Commander Connelly get winded so soon. They can’t pump up even a little hill without having to get off at the top and rest. We’re lucky to be at North White Plains, let alone the North Pole. I began by going on ahead as fast as I could, but this just made them sore and I lost them going through Hartsdale and had to sit down by the roadside and wait for them to come up. They both got pretty fat during the summer hanging around at the base in Scarsdale, and my father especially has got to look out or he’ll look something awful in another year. I told him so, too, and he told me to shut up or he’d send me away to military school.

Well, anyway, what with the old folks puffing along behind and Ensign Thermaline having to stop off in White Plains to see an old girl of his, it has taken us just four days to get this far.

Coming through White Plains, my father tried to tell me about the battle that was fought there during the Revolutionary War.

“What battle was that?” I asked.

“The Battle of White Plains, of course,” he said. “What did you think it was, the Battle of Princeton, N. J.?”

“Princeton beat Harvard, didn’t they?” I came back at him.

At this he made a lunge for me, and fell off his bicycle, which got me to laughing so hard I had to stop, too.

“And who won the Battle of White Plains, Father dear?” I asked him, trying to change the subject.

“The Americans did, of course,” he said, brushing himself off.

“Yeah?” I said. “So the Americans won, did they? Well, that shows what you know about it. The British won. We had it in school only last week.”

“What school?” asked my father, very sore now.

“Not Harvard, anyway,” I said. “Yale beat Harvard, too.”

“Yeah?” he said, getting redder and redder. “Yale beat Harvard by playing twelve men against Harvard’s eleven.... And if you aren’t a better boy, Daddy’s going to send you right back to Scarsdale on the 4:10 from White Plains.”

“The 4:10 doesn’t stop at Scarsdale,” I said. “It’s an express to 125th St.”

“Let’s be getting on,” interrupted Lieut.-Commander Connelly. “This is no way to get to the North Pole—arguing about Harvard and Yale.”

So we all got on our wheels again and pushed ahead, but I think I’ll drop off at Mt. Kisco and see the Barry kids. My time is worth something.