Mountains of the Moon E-Book

T.C. Bridges

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Jim was a tall boy, taller than Bart and probably a year older, and would have looked nice if not for his conceited expression. His hair was black as ink, he had very dark eyes, and his skin was darker than that of an ordinary Englishman. Behind him was a small plump guy who looked like a groom or nursery. The new arrival looked at his dogs, then turned to Bart.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. HOW BART HID THE HARE

II. JET TRIES TRICKERY

III. A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE

IV. A MESSAGE FROM THE MOUNTAINS

V. FACE TO FACE WITH THE MONSTER

VI. THE SKELETONS' SHELF

VII. HUMAN HOUNDS

VIII. THE ROGUE

IX. THE LAST ADVENTURE

I. HOW BART HID THE HARE

JIM WITHERS pulled up short and stood listening.

“Hear that, Bart?” he asked.

Bart Bryson, who had hardly said a word since Jim joined him at the head of the lane, looked vaguely at the younger boy.

“Hear what?” he asked.

Jim stared hard at his friend.

“What’s the matter with you, Bart? I never saw you like this before. What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Bart answered. Then all of a sudden he seemed to wake up. His sturdy figure straightened, his grey eyes became alive. “Yes, I hear it,” he said sharply, and the words were barely out of his mouth before a hare springing through a gap in the hedge on the right landed in the lane.

The little creature was covered with mud, she was almost exhausted, and her large, liquid eyes were full of fear. Instead of bolting away at sight of the two boys she came straight towards them, and cowered at their feet.

“Well, I never!” began Jim.

But it was Bart who stooped like a flash and picked up the hare. Only just in time, for next instant two greyhounds burst through the hedge and stopped, evidently wondering what had become of their quarry. Greyhounds are gaze hounds. They hunt by sight and not, like foxhounds, by scent, and as Bart had already hidden the hare under the skirt of his loose jacket, the dogs were puzzled.

“Well, I’m blessed!” exclaimed Jim. “I never saw anything like that before.”

“You’ll see something else pretty soon,” said Bart. “This sounds like the chap who owns the dogs.”

Sure enough, someone came crashing through the hedge and leapt down into the muddy lane. He was a tall boy, taller than Bart and probably a year older, and would have been quite good looking had it not been for his conceited expression. His hair was black as ink, he had very dark eyes, and his skin was darker than that of an average Englishman. Behind him was a stubby little fellow who looked like a groom or kennel boy. The new arrival glanced at his dogs, then turned to Bart.

“Where’s that hare?” he demanded. All of a sudden he spotted what Bart was holding so carefully under his coat. “You mean to say you’ve picked it up!” he exclaimed! “Of all the cheek! Put it down at once.”

Bart had quite lost his dull look. His face was slightly flushed, and his lips were very firm.

“I haven’t the least intention of putting it down,” he answered, “at least not till you and your dogs have gone back where you belong.”

The other looked as if he could not believe his ears. His face flushed darkly.

“You cheeky young cub!” he cried. “Drop that hare this minute, or take the consequences.”

The little groom man slipped up close to Bart.

“Let him have it, sir,” he whispered urgently. “He’s Mr. Jet Norcross, and a terror when he’s upset.”

Bart smiled. “He’s going to be very badly upset if he doesn’t keep his temper and clear out,” he remarked. “Jim, take the hare and keep those dogs off it.”

As Jim took the hare from Bart one of the dogs bounded forward and snapped at it, but Jim gave the beast a cut with his ash- plant which sent it snarling back.

“You dare hit my dog!” shouted Master Jet and sprang at Jim.

But Bart stepped quickly between and deftly thrusting out a foot tripped Jet who came down heavily on hands and knees in the mud.

He was up in a flash, and rushed at Bart, hitting wildly. Instead of dodging, Bart bent right down, caught the other round the knees, then hoisted with all his might. The natural result was that Jet left the ground, flew like a rocket over Bart’s shoulder, and landed with a crash in the hedge at the side of the lane. The bushes saved him from being really hurt, but as it happened he struck a particularly thorny patch, and stuck fast.

Jim grinned broadly, Bart looked on calmly, but as for the little man he turned white and shaky.

“Run afore he gets out, sir,” he begged of Bart. “He’ll jest about kill you when he gets free.”

Bart’s answer was to take Jet by the legs and drag him out. The moment he was clear Jet rounded on Bart like a tiger. The thorns had not improved his smart tweeds, and he had a long bleeding scratch down one cheek, but to do him justice he was still full of fight, and he rushed at Bart again, hitting out with both hands. This time Bart stood his ground, and fending off the windmill blows awaited his chance, then sent in one straight left. His fist caught Jet on the point of the chin, and Jet sat down in the mud and this time stayed there.

“Sorry,” said Bart quietly, “but you would have it.”

Jet sat in the road and glared. He was too shaken to do much else. Bart turned to the little man.

“He’ll be all right in a minute,” he said; “then you can take him home. Come on, Jim.”

“Rum bird that!” observed Jim as they went away.

“Bit of a spoilt beauty,” agreed Bart. Then his pleasant face hardened. “But it was a rotten business hunting a hare like that, especially a doe. The chances are she’s got young ‘uns up on the down. I vote we go up there and turn her loose.”

“We’d better be sharp about it,” said Jim softly, “for here’s more trouble if I’m not mistaken.”

Bart looked up. “This old boy on horseback, you mean,” he answered. “It does look rather as if he was waiting for us.”

The old boy, as Bart had called him, was a thin-faced, yet very dignified old gentleman mounted on a quiet cob, and it occurred to Bart that he had probably seen the whole business. And so he had, for as the boys came alongside he spoke.

“May I ask your name?” he said to Bart.

“I am Bart Bryson, sir,” replied Bart.

“Son of the explorer?”

“Yes, sir.”

The other nodded. “My name is Clinton. I am uncle of that youngster whom you left sitting in the lane.” He paused and looked hard at Bart. “Will you come up to Morden with me?” he asked.

Bart did not hesitate. “Very good, sir,” he answered quietly, and turned to Jim “Take the hare up on the down, Jim, and turn her loose. And you might tell Dad that I am paying Mr. Clinton a visit.”

Mr. Clinton did not say a word as he led the way to the iron gates of a drive and through them into a small park and so to a fine old house standing among splendid trees. At the door a groom came and took his horse, and Bart followed his leader up the steps into a fine hall with polished parquet floor and great stained-glass windows. They went through this into a small cosy room with a log fire burning in an open grate, and bookcases reaching almost to the ceiling.

“Sit down,” said Mr. Clinton, and Bart obeyed, wondering what was going to happen, and not feeling very happy.

Mr. Clinton took the chair opposite, and sat looking at Bart for so long as to make him quite uncomfortable.

“So you thrashed Jet?” he said at last.

“I had to,” said Bart simply.

“Oh, don’t think I am complaining! I am very glad you did beat him. Do you think you could do it again?”

Bart gasped. He had quite thought he was in for trouble, and this answer of Mr. Clinton’s was so surprising he could hardly believe his senses. Mr. Clinton smiled, and it was such a nice smile that Bart began to feel better.

“I really mean it,” said his host. “I want to know if you could thrash Jet again.”

Bart laughed. “Why, of course I could, sir. He doesn’t know the first thing about boxing.”

“Will you come and live here and do it then?” asked the other.

“No, sir,” said Bart promptly. “Of course I won’t.”

Mr. Clinton nodded. “I thought you’d say that, and of course I didn’t quite mean it. Bart, listen. Jet Norcross is my sister’s son; she married a man who was half Spanish, and they lived in South America. Jet’s father died when he was only six, and his mother spoilt him badly. She was very well off, and there was a big house with lots of servants and every luxury.

“She died last year and left the boy to me, and frankly I cannot do anything with him. I sent him to school, but he lost his temper and struck a master and was back on my hands in a month. Then I got a tutor for him, and the tutor stayed three days and left with a black eye and fifty pounds compensation money in his pocket. Jet runs wild, and no one has the least control over him. With that blazing Spanish temper of his, he will get into dreadful trouble one of these days, and I am at my wits’ ends. When I saw you hammer him just now I thought that I had at last found someone who could handle him. What do you say, Bryson?”

Bart shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s a bit out of my line.”

“Wait!” said Mr. Clinton. “Don’t make up your mind in a hurry. Jet comes in for a very large fortune when he is twenty-one, and I too am a rich man. I may say that money is no object, and that I should be prepared to pay you very well if you would come and live here with him and act as bear-leader.”

“It wouldn’t be a bit of good, sir. If you’d take advice from a youngster like me the only thing would be to send him abroad–into the wilds, I mean.”

“Then take him into the wilds. Who better than you, for I believe you have already been in Africa with your father?”

Bart hesitated, and the other saw it.

“Remember, money is no object,” he urged.

“Do you really mean that, sir? Would you go as high as £2,000?”

Mr. Clinton looked surprised for a moment.

“That’s a large sum, but yes, I would.”

“May I explain, sir?”

“Do,” said Mr. Clinton cordially.

“It’s this way, sir. My father has had bad news. His partner, Mr. Mark Murdoch, has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yes, in Africa. He and all his boys–carriers, you know–were on their way to a place where Mr. Murdoch had heard of a quantity of ivory, but they never reached it, and Dad believes that they have been taken prisoners by a tribe up in the hills.”

“What hills?”

“Ruwenzori, sir.”

“I know. Just north of the Equator. Yes, there’s some bad country there–and bad niggers.”

“You know it, Mr. Clinton?”

“No, but I have been in Uganda, and I know something of Africa.” He paused and gazed at Bart. “Do you mean that you want to take Jet out there?” he asked.

Bart hesitated. “I know it’s rather a large order, sir, but after what you said, it seemed–well–a sort of chance.”

“Is your father going?”

“He’s mad to go, but can’t afford it. He had put up every penny, he had to pay for the expedition, and now I don’t think he has enough left for our fares to Mombasa, let alone the expense of carriers and an expedition up country.”

Mr. Clinton did not answer, and Bart went on quickly: “But of course it’s absurd to think of your putting up so much money, sir. It was only–”

The other cut him short. “Not at all, Bryson. £2,000 would be a cheap price to make a man of my nephew, and I would pay it gladly. And if you could not do it in Africa you could not do it anywhere. I was thinking of the one hitch in the matter.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Getting Jet to go. I can’t force him to accompany you.”

“Ask him, sir, and if you don’t succeed, I’ll have a try.”

Mr. Clinton looked doubtful. “I’m afraid he will turn it down, Bryson, but I will do my best. No, don’t go yet. You must have some tea first.”