“Ferry-boats!” I gasped. And the decks were crowded. The boats presented a gala appearance, streamers and banners flying, the upper decks shaded with gay-colored awnings. We could easily see into the brilliantly-lighted salons, and wondered at the sparkling interior, and down the sides of all these vessels people jostled and hurried. A number of men hastened to meet us. Stalwart, massive fellows, white, but a dark tinge, and every blessed mother’s son of them as handsome as Apollo. Potolili spoke the truth, the Centaurians were gods. “Good heavens, what magnificent people!” I cried out in admiration. “Aye,” answered Sheldon, “to see something like this is worth crossing the Pole. For the first time in my life I see a _man_!” His remark irritated Saxe. “Curtail your tongues!” he snapped. “The more perfect the body the less soul it contains. Sheldon, you’ve lost your senses. Undoubtedly those splendid creatures are men; so are we. Perfection we cannot boast, but we possess souls.” “Do we, now?” squeaked Saunders, who never permitted any one to worry Sheldon except himself. But Saxe. only scowled, and with Octrogona, stepped from the car. “Wonder if the climate is affecting old Saxe.?” Saunders inquired. “You started it!” Sheldon growled. “And you got the blame for it!” I retorted. “Hist! don’t quarrel; come along,” Saunders urged hurriedly. “Suppose they expect to rope us on to those boats.” We hurried after Saxe., who spruced up lively as a Centaurian advanced to greet us. A handsome, broad-shouldered gentleman, who spoke words of welcome in Latin, pure and simple, much to the astonishment of Saxe., who expected a mutilation of every language under the sun thrown into one. Many crowded around us, eager to shake hands, and we were extravagantly complimented upon accomplishing the “remarkably daring exploit of crossing the Polar regions.” Of course Saxe. received most of the honors and bowed continually, while we stood in the rear a sort of reflection, though I noticed many eying me curiously and suddenly a group of gay, young men, who had held aloof, laughing and joking among themselves, no doubt at me, rushed forward and closed around me, and to my chagrin, boldly criticised my face and form, muttering: “A Centauri, a Centauri!” “Now don’t get conceited, Sally,” Sheldon admonished. “These fellows think you as pretty as you think them.”