[Illustration: cover art]

SINCLAIR'S LUCK

BOYS' EMPIRE LIBRARY
TITLES UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

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Rowland Walker
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Sydney Horler
Shandy of Ringmere School
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"Pickles" of the Lower Fifth
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Trapped in Tripoli!
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Sinclair's Luck!
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Jack Rollock's Adventures
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Cap'n Nat's Treasure
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The Secret Men
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The Adventures of Don Lavington
George Manville Fenn
The Terror of the Tin Mine
George Manville Fenn

{Illustration: "SUDDENLY DESMOND FELL WITH A LOUD THUD"
[p.[241]}

SINCLAIR'S LUCK

A STORY OF ADVENTURE IN
EAST AFRICA

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

AUTHOR OF
"BILLY BARCROFT, OF THE R.N.A.S."
"THE DREADNOUGHT OF THE AIR,"
"THE RIVAL SUBMARINES," ETC., ETC.

{Illustration: logo}

S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1

Readers of the adventures in East Africa of the two heroes, Colin Sinclair and Tiny Desmond, as narrated in the pages of this book, will be greatly interested in their school life, before leaving for the Dark Continent, which is splendidly told in the story entitled "The Mystery of Stockmere School."

MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
First published 1923
Frequently reprinted

Contents

SINCLAIR'S LUCK

CHAPTER I

THE TWO CHUMS

"My last term, Tiny, old son," announced Sinclair dismally.

"What? Never!" replied "Tiny" Desmond, who, at the age of sixteen years and three months, had attained the height of six feet one inch. "Your last term at Stockmere? You're trying to pull my leg."

"Wish I were," rejoined Colin. "But it's a fact. My governor wrote to Dr. Narfield a week ago."

"Why?" inquired Desmond, linking arms with his sturdy, athletically-built chum. "Tell me all about it. Chuck it off your chest."

It was the first day of the summer term. Stockmere was in a state of commotion that is usually associated with the commencement of a new session. There were boys promoted to higher forms, boys remaining in a state of "as you were," new boys wandering about aimlessly like strangers in a strange land, fearful the while lest by word or deed they should transgress the moral and social side of their new school-fellows. There were boys seeking old chums; boys casting about for fresh ones. Housemasters and formmasters were discussing boys; the Head and the Matron were doing likewise. In short, the topic was "Boys."

"Let's get out of this crush," continued Tiny. "Lorrimer and Perkins are cackling away in our study. You know what they are. I vote we push off up on the moors. I'll ask Collier."

The housemaster, recently placed in charge of the Upper Sixth, gave the required permission.

"Very good, Desmond," he replied in answer to Tiny's request. "Back at four, mind. How's that cough of yours, by the bye? Lost it yet?"

"Nearly, sir," replied Tiny, flushing.

"H'm, about time," rejoined Mr. Collier. "All right, carry on."

The two sixth-formers touched their caps and walked away.

"Wish he wouldn't harp on that cough," murmured Desmond. "It's really nothing much; a bit of a bother first thing in the morning. Now, Colin, what's this stunt?"

Sinclair told his story simply and without hesitation. There were no secrets between the two chums. They shared their pleasures, their, for the most part trivial, troubles, their perplexities, and their worldly goods (as far as their school belongings went) whole-heartedly.

"Fact is," said Colin, "my governor has been losing a lot of money since the War, and he can't afford to keep me at Stockmere after this term. I found out quite accidentally that the pater had been pretty badly hit for some time. I ought to have left a year ago, only he kept it dark and managed to let me stay on. He was hoping for things to improve financially only they didn't. So that's that."

"Hard lines!" ejaculated Desmond sympathetically.

"That's why the governor didn't come up to the sports," resumed Sinclair. "He simply couldn't run to it. And he's sold his car and cut down a lot of things, but he's losing ground, so to speak. His pension was quite all right once upon a time, but now it goes nowhere."

"And what are you going to do?" asked Tiny.

"I hardly know," replied his chum. "Of course, my idea of going to an engineering college is off. After all's said and done, it means earning nothing until a fellow's well over twenty-one, and then he's lucky if he makes as much as a miner or a bricklayer. At any rate, I've got to do something—to earn something. In fact, I don't think I ought to have come back this term."

"Well, what are you going to do?" asked Desmond.

Colin shook his head.

"I hardly know," he replied. "Anything to help things along. I've got thirteen weeks to think over it. By that time—but, I say, Tiny, you won't say a word to any of the other fellows?" he added anxiously.

"'Course not," declared Desmond.

"Right-o!" rejoined Sinclair, then, as if he had put the matter out of his mind, he drew himself up, stretched his arms, and sniffed appreciatively at the keen, bracing mountain air.

"My word," he exclaimed, "isn't it tophole? I'll race you to the crest of Shutter Pike."

It was a distance of about four hundred yards to the summit of the hill known as Shutter Pike—a gentle gradient for two-thirds of the way, ending up with a fairly stiff ascent.

For the first fifty yards Tiny led, but gradually Colin recovered the initial advantage his companion had gained, and before the last fifty yards he had drawn up level. Then, putting his whole energy into the race, Sinclair dashed ahead and flung himself upon the grassy knoll at the summit. To his surprise, Tiny had stopped and was holding his hands against his ribs and coughing violently.

"Buck up, man!" Sinclair shouted. "I'm a bit out of training .... Why, what's the matter? Anything wrong?"

Desmond shook his head, but made no attempt to move. His companion jumped to his feet and ran down the slope.

"Did you fall?" he asked anxiously, for the bluish-grey pallor on his chum's face rather took him aback.

"No," spluttered Tiny. "Stitch, or something ... nothing much."

He sat down abruptly, endeavouring to stifle the fit of coughing. At length he succeeded.

"You're not up to the mark, that's evident," said Colin. "What have you been doing these hols? You're right out of condition. You'll have to train, my festive."

"I will," replied Desmond. "I've been slacking a bit, but I'll soon get into form. I say, it's close on four. Let's get a move on."

Hardly a word was exchanged as the pair made their way schoolwards.

"Don't say anything to Collier," said Tiny, as they passed the lodge gates. "About this little cough of mine, I mean."

"'Course not," declared Colin. "Why should I?"

Tea over, Desmond and Sinclair went to the rooms they shared with Lorrimer and "Polly" Perkins. Here everything was in a state of disorder. The furniture had only just been removed from their last term's den; their boxes and trunks, half unpacked, were piled upon the table and chairs, while an assortment of bats, tennis rackets, fishing rods, nets, and other articles inseparable with schoolboys filled every available corner of the room.

"You're a nice pair!" exclaimed Lorrimer. "Mooching off and leaving Polly and me to square things up."

"And a fine square up you've made of it," replied Tiny. "Hullo, what's this? My razor! Polly, you are the absolute limit."

Perkins received the intelligence with as good grace as possible when discovered in the act of using another fellow's razor for the purpose of cutting rope.

"Sorry, old man," he replied apologetically. "But what do you do with your razor, by the bye? Half a mo', Tiny, before you start scrapping. The Head's been looking out for you."

"Honest?" inquired Desmond.

"Honest," assented Polly.

At Stockmere that word was sufficient. No fellow ever doubted the genuineness of an assertion thus expressed. Desmond picked up his cap and made his way to Dr. Narfield's study.

The summons did not surprise him. Coupled with the fact that he was one of the head boys, and that this was the first day of a new term, it was not unusual for a youth in Desmond's position to be called to the Head's study.

Dr. Narfield was standing with his back to the empty fireplace in a characteristic attitude, his mortar-board on the back of his head and his hands clasped under the tails of his gown:

"You sent for me, sir?"

"Yes, Desmond," replied the Head, looking at the lad over the top of his spectacles. "I thought, Desmond, that you, a head boy, would be above a senseless practical joke."

He paused. Tiny regarded the doctor dumfoundedly. And then that irritating cough made itself known again.

Dr. Narfield waited until the fit was over.

"Perhaps, Desmond," he resumed, "you will kindly explain why this was found in your handbag?"

He pointed to a large dish on a side table. On it, writhing gently, was an eel, about ten inches in length.

"That—er—pet," continued the Head, "nearly frightened the housekeeper into hysterics when she opened your bag. You are, of course, aware that pets are permitted at Stockmere, but there are limits in the choice of a selection. Now, Desmond, please explain."

Desmond hesitated. The affair wanted some explanation, but he wasn't at all sure that his elucidation was a correct one.

"I can't exactly explain, sir," he replied. "I didn't put it into my bag, and I certainly didn't intend to frighten Mrs. Symonds or anybody."

"Then how did it get into your bag?" asked the Head patiently. Previous experiences had taught him the advisability of a patient hearing and not to judge by circumstantial evidence. He knew perfectly well the best way to detect a guilty culprit was to let him tell his story without comment until he had made the fatal error of condemning himself.

"It was like this, sir," explained Desmond. "The train was crowded, and I rode in the guard's van. In the van, amongst other things, was a large box labelled 'Eels—Perishable.' It had a small crack in it, and very soon I saw an eel's tail appear. Then somehow other tails found their way through and the box began to open."

Dr. Narfield nodded. He knew from personal experience that eels have frequently been known to force open heavy boxes in which they are packed for transit.

"Go on, Desmond," he said gravely. Tiny, finding that the Head did not ridicule his tale, plunged into his narrative without further hesitation.

"I told the guard," he continued, "but he was busy writing in a book, and told me it wasn't his business. It wasn't mine, so I just watched. And before we got to Little Porton the eels had forced open the box and were wriggling all over the place—hundreds of them, sir. The guard got the wind up then—I mean, sir, he was in a bit of a funk. I didn't exactly care for it myself, although it was a topping rag to watch. So we both sat on some luggage and kept our feet up, although at every station the guard had to get out. And a crowd of eels got out, too. There were dozens of them left on every platform, and by the time we got to Colbury Monkton the van was almost empty. I must have left my bag unfastened—in fact, I remember closing it when I got out—so I suppose one of them wriggled in."

The Head smiled.

"That explanation is quite satisfactory, Desmond," he remarked. "You may go."

CHAPTER II

"MEETING THE CASE"

At dinner that evening, a rather informal meal, at which the Head and the housemasters discuss the wholly absorbing topic of boys, Dr. Narfield related his interview with Desmond.

"By the way," he continued, addressing Mr. Collier, who sat next to him, "have you noticed anything peculiar about Desmond?"

"He hasn't seemed quite up to the mark for some time," replied Mr. Collier. "A rather troublesome cough——"

"Precisely," interrupted the Head. "That was the fact to which I was going to refer. He's a big fellow obviously outgrowing his strength. I don't like that cough. It's strange his people didn't notice it. Some parents never do. However, Collier, without frightening the lad, send him over to the sanatorium to-morrow morning and get Dr. Anderson to run over him. I believe I mentioned that Sinclair was leaving this term?"

"Yes, indeed," replied the sixth form housemaster. "And I'm very sorry to hear it. We'll miss him in the next inter-school sports."

Dr. Narfield sighed. Even years of experience of this sort of thing—of promising pupils leaving just as they were doing sterling work for the good and honour of the school—had not made him indifferent to the continual changes that are inevitable.

"And just as he was showing promise of gaining his Matric," he added gloomily. "Case of financial difficulties, I am informed. It's a strange England nowadays, Collier. All ups and downs, and goodness only knows what things are coming to. Yes, I'm sorry for Sinclair."

* * * * *

"Now hold your breath ... count ten ... say, 'Ah.'"

Dr. Anderson tapped Desmond with his stethoscope.

"Again .... Cough."

Tiny Desmond tried to cough, but without success. That irritating cough of his had a nasty habit of asserting itself at very inconvenient times, but now, when the doctor wanted him to cough, he simply couldn't.

"All right, Desmond. Get your clothes on. I'll make you up a little medicine. For the present I must keep you here."

"In the sanny, doctor!" exclaimed the astonished Tiny. "Why, sir, is there anything very much wrong with me?"

The doctor smiled.

"You want to go into dock for a slight overhaul and refit, Desmond," he replied. "Nothing much, but if neglected, your cough will develop into something serious. You've been maintaining a full head of steam in a boiler with defective tubes. Those tubes haven't blown out yet, but they might. You understand what I mean? Very well, then. It's merely a matter of going slow, taking reasonable precautions, and undergoing a sort of treatment, and we'll soon have you fit again."

Tiny Desmond nodded gravely. He was not deceived by the kindly doctor's words. What he imagined was wrong with him for some time past—he had tried over and over again to treat it lightly—was no illusion. It was lung trouble.

* * * * *

"I ran over young Desmond this morning, Dr. Narfield," reported Dr. Anderson. "It's no use mincing matters, although I tried, ineffectually, I fear, to bluff the lad. One lung is badly affected; the other shows signs of pulmonary weakness. The best thing to be done is to send that youngster abroad—to a warm, dry climate. It will mean you losing a promising pupil, but that's an assured thing in any case. If he does go abroad there's a thundering good chance that he will make a complete recovery. If he doesn't—well——"

Dr. Anderson turned his thumbs down. There was no mistaking the significance of the act.

"I'll write to his parents at once," declared the Head. "I don't suppose for one moment they have noticed Desmond's condition. Parents rarely do; they trust implicitly to the school physician. Fortunately, Anderson, we've found out in time, I trust. By the bye, it might be a dispensation of Providence; how would East Africa suit him?"

"Quite all right in the uplands of the interior," replied Dr. Anderson. "The coast and the forest regions—no. Why do you ask?"

"Because not half an hour ago I received a letter from my brother Herbert," explained the Head. "You know he left there to take up an official appointment in Ceylon. His papers were cancelled for some reason, and instead he was given a post as mining engineer at Kilembonga, which is, I believe, about a hundred miles north-west of Tabora. He asks if I know of a couple of Stockmere boys about to leave school who would be willing to act as his assistants. Curiously enough, he mentioned Desmond and Sinclair."

"The very thing!" ejaculated Dr. Anderson. "You were telling me about young Sinclair—a hard case. I feel sorry for that lad."

The outcome of the conversation resulted in Colin Sinclair and Tiny Desmond being called to the Head's study. Briefly Dr. Narfield outlined his brother's request.

"It is a healthy life," he continued, "and there are excellent prospects of qualifying for a well-paid profession. If you two fellows would like to go, I will write to your respective parents, and if they are agreeable there's no reason why you shouldn't be in what was recently German East Africa in less than a couple of months. But I suppose you want time to consider matters?"

Tiny looked at Colin, and Colin looked at Tiny. It was a case of spontaneous mutual telepathy.

"No need for that, sir," declared Tiny, "we're on it—I mean, sir, we are only too delighted."

"Rather, sir!" agreed Sinclair heartily. Then, suddenly remembering, he added: "But I'm afraid, sir, the cost would be ... I don't mind mentioning it before Desmond, because he knows. I've told him about things at home. I'm afraid my people couldn't afford the expense of a journey to Africa."

"That is a detail that can be gone into later," observed Dr. Narfield mildly. "The question is, are you anxious to go?"

"Yes, sir," replied Colin simply.

"Very well," rejoined the Head. "That's all for the present. You may go."

And with these somewhat ambiguous words ringing in their ears, the two chums hurried out to discuss between themselves the portentous event that loomed large on their mental horizon.

For his part, Dr. Narfield was as enthusiastic as the two lads over the proposal. He had no doubt but that Desmond's people would willingly give the required permission, especially in view of the fact that the climate was in every way suited to effect Desmond's complete recovery.

Sinclair's case was different. Although the Head was not aware by the tone of Colin's father's letter of the extreme financial straits in which Mr. Sinclair found himself, he was able to form a fairly accurate opinion of the situation.

Had Mr. Desmond and Mr. Sinclair had the opportunity of comparing notes, they would have seen an important difference in the text of the Head's letter. In that to Colin's father Dr. Narfield concluded with the bold announcement that "Your son's passage will be paid." Nicholas Narfield believed in doing good turns by stealth.

And so, three days later, Tiny Desmond and Colin Sinclair were informed that they were to hold themselves in readiness to sail on S.S. Huldebras for Cape Town, en route to the wilds of East Africa.

CHAPTER III

FAREWELL

Next morning Colin Sinclair bade farewell to Stockmere School. It cannot be said that he did so reluctantly. His mind was so full of the tremendous adventure which confronted him that he hardly realised he was passing another landmark in his career.

He had parted with his school-fellows amid unanimous good wishes and envious regrets. Mr. Collier, his housemaster, gave him some sound advice, which, seemingly falling upon deaf ears, served a useful purpose before many months had passed. He also handed the lad a small box wrapped up in brown paper—a gift that Colin afterwards found to be a tabloid medicine chest.

The Head was moved to the verge of tears during his farewell interview, at which Colin wondered. There seemed a vast difference between the austere pedagogue and the frail, sympathetic man—yet they were one and the same.

"And, Colin," he concluded, "I want you to accept and use this little gift. You will find it more of a protection than a rifle."

Sinclair took the proffered parcel with undisguised curiosity. By the feel of it it was like a large revolver, which, he thought, was a strange choice on the part of the learned Dr. Narfield. But when the wrappings were removed a plated article that looked like a motor-pump and carburetter was displayed.

"It's a filter," explained the Head. "Impure water is, as you know, one of the greatest sources of disease in tropical countries. So always filter your drinking water, Colin, and if it is possible, boil it as well. One cannot be too careful in that respect. I remember as a young man—eheu, fugaces—when I was engaged in a scientific expedition in South America how a lack of pure water hampered our work and endangered the health of the whole party. Well, good-bye, Colin, and God-speed."

Ten minutes later Colin was bowling along towards Colbury Monkton in a taxi. Then, and only then, did the thought strike him that he was leaving Stockmere for good. He might see the school again—he hoped he would as an Old Boy—but there was a chance that he might not.

For the next six weeks—days that moved with leaden feet—Colin's parents, brothers and sisters, cousins and aunts, busied themselves with the preparations for the lad's departure. In spite of Dr. Narfield's generosity in secretly providing the passage money, the already seriously strained financial resources of the family were severely taxed.

An outfit—a heavy expense even in pre-war days—had to be procured. This, cut down as efficiency would permit, made quite a hole in fifty pounds. Nothing superfluous was ordered since Mr. Sinclair "knew the ropes" and strenuously resisted the blandishments of the outfitter to purchase "necessaries" which more than likely would never be required.

At length the day prior to the sailing of the S.S. Huldebras arrived. Colin, accompanied by his father, went up to London, where at an hotel Tiny Desmond joined them.

Tiny had brought all the family with him—apparently because he had no option in the matter. His outfit, too, was mountainous. Each of his three trunks was larger than Colin's modest two metal-bound boxes. His worldly goods were greatly superior to his chum's, but Colin had something that Desmond, with all the wealth of his family to back him, did not possess—good health.

"Simply had to bring all this stuff along, Colin," he explained apologetically. "We'll share and share alike on this stunt. I've a couple of fine .303 sporting rifles given me. Wish I could have shown you, but they're packed. One's yours. Wonder who'll bag the first lion? There are hundreds of them around Kilembonga, I'm told."

Desmond was excited, but even a casual observer could see that the lad was far from well. His treatment under Dr. Anderson—he did not leave Stockmere for a month after Colin's departure—had merely arrested the progress of the malady. As the doctor had said, nothing less than a prolonged stay in a warm, dry climate would effect a cure.

At nine o'clock on the following morning the two chums went on board. It was a bewildering sort of morning. They were shown their respective berths by the busy steward, and, of course, Colin's father and Tiny's swarm of relatives had to see their cabins. Since there were hundreds of passengers and their friends all doing the same sort of thing, there was little privacy and no opportunity for a quiet farewell.

An hour later a bell rang and an order was given for all visitors to leave the ship.

"Good-bye, my boy, and the best of luck," exclaimed Mr. Sinclair, gripping his son's hand. The last farewells were exchanged, the gangways clattered on the quay-side, and, bullied and cajoled by a pair of fussy tugs, the Huldebras glided into the broad estuary of the Thames.

Fainter and fainter dwindled the shouts from the wharf, until the dense crowd of people vanished in the light mist that overhung the river.

Then, under the impulse of her powerful engines, the good ship gathered way and was fairly on her voyage.

"It seems too good to be true," exclaimed Tiny. "I hope I shan't wake up and find it's all a dream."

CHAPTER IV

"REGARDLESS OF THE RISK"

The two chums berthed in separate cabins. On account of Desmond's weak lungs he was compelled by the company's rules to sleep in a part of the ship set apart for persons suffering from pulmonary complaints.

Consequently Colin had to have another cabin-mate, since every available berth had been booked weeks before the Huldebras was due to sail.

When Colin went below to see to his cabin trunk, he found his future "opposite number" engaged upon the same errand—a tall, heavily-built bearded man of about forty years of age.

"Don't apologise," said the man. "You have as much right here as I have. We're cabin-mates, are we not? What is your name?"

Colin told him.

"Mine's Van der Wyck," volunteered the other. "Heard that name before?"

"It's Dutch, isn't it?" asked Colin.

The bearded man laughed, displaying a double row of large white teeth.

"Was once," he replied. "I'm an Afrikander; do you know what that is? Well, a Boer, if you like! See that?"

He turned up his coat-sleeve, revealing a bluish mark on his bronzed skin.

"That's a bullet wound," he continued. "I got that twenty years ago at Paardeberg, fighting against the British. See that?"

Van der Wyck lifted one leg, and, pulling up the trouser-leg a few inches, revealed the fact that he wore an artificial foot.

"Got that in 1916 fighting for the British in German East Africa," he explained proudly. "Bit of a scrap close to a place called Kilembonga. Don't suppose you've ever heard of the place."

"I have," declared Colin. "That's where I'm going."

"Allemachtag!" exclaimed the Afrikander. "I hope you will enjoy the place better than I did. But, then, Fritz with a rifle is no longer there. What are you going to Kilembonga for—ivory? There are plenty of elephants, and lions, too."

"No, mining," replied Colin, "or, rather, mining engineering."

Van der Wyck looked at his youthful cabin-companion with a quizzical air.

"You would do better in the Witwatersrand," he observed, and without offering any explanation, he busied himself with the contents of his trunk.

For the next three days Colin kept to his bunk. His high hopes of becoming a good sailor were rudely dashed, not exactly to the ground, but somewhere else of a less solid nature. In nautical parlance, he was "mustering his bag," or, in plain language, he was horribly seasick.

All the way down Channel and across the Bay the Huldebras was followed by a strong nor'-easterly wind, that made the ship roll far worse than if she had encountered a head wind.

Colin had some slight satisfaction in the knowledge that he was not the only passenger out of action with mal-de-mer. The steward, who brought and took away twelve untasted meals, informed him that only half-a-dozen of the second-class were up and about.

On the morning of the fourth day Colin dressed and went on deck. He still felt far from well, but he was able to eat breakfast. There was no sign of Tiny Desmond, and it was not until late that afternoon that that very woe-begone-looking youth staggered out of his cabin.

But before the Huldebras sighted Las Palmas Colin had recovered his normal spirits, while Desmond looked better than he had done for weeks past. The rest of the passengers, too, were finding their sea-legs, and taking an interest in deck games.

In spite of the difference of ages, the two chums got on splendidly with Van der Wyck. Apart from the fact that he knew the district to which they were bound, he was a "thundering good sort." He retained the quiet, unassuming manner of a veldt farmer, combined with the experience gained by travelling in other portions of the Empire to which he was proud to belong.

Like many of his veldt friends and neighbours, he had been an ardent supporter of President Kruger, but the generous concessions accorded the conquered Boers had speedily been vindicated. Except for a minority, the Afrikanders were genuinely loyal to the British Government.

"There is a very remarkable tribe living in the district around Kilembonga," remarked Van der Wyck one evening, as the Afrikander and the two chums were standing on a secluded portion of the promenade deck, watching the sun set. The Huldebras was now approaching the Tropics, steaming at seventeen knots through a perfectly calm sea. From below came the strains of the ship's band discoursing the music of the latest London comedy.

"Savages?" queried Tiny.

"Yes," replied Van der Wyck. "Savages with qualities that a good many white men lack. The Makoh'lenga, as they call themselves, are big fellows—the average height is six feet two—of a mixed stock. Report has it that a Zulu impi, which had incurred the wrath of King Dingaan, fled northwards more than eighty years ago and 'ate up' almost every tribe they encountered until they struck the Arab races inhabiting the region between Lakes Tanganyika and Victoria Nyanza. Apparently Arab and Zulu blood fused, and the Makoh'lengas were the result.

"Then the Huns got possession of the territory lately known as German East, but they were unable to exercise any authority over the Makoh'lengas. Even the Askaris—the German native levies—failed to subdue them; and, as you probably may know, the Askaris under Hun officers made admirable soldiers.

"Several expeditions into the Makoh'lenga territory resulted in disaster, till at length the Askaris, also influenced by superstitious fears, point blank refused to fight the powerfully-built natives. So the German sub-Governor, von Spreewald, ordered a cordon to be placed round the Makoh'lenga country and tried to starve the tribe into submission."

"And did he succeed?" asked Colin.

"He succeeded in making a rod for his own back," replied Van der Wyck. "The Makoh'lengas are self-supporting. They grow enough maize and rear enough cattle to be independent of outsiders for food. So the blockade failed, but von Spreewald by his action created a menace to the German rule in East Africa. When the War broke out the Makoh'lengas were actively pro-British. Yet as far as I know only one white man ever set foot in the Secret City of Makoh'lenga."

"Did you ever meet him?" asked Desmond.

"Yes," replied Van der Wyck, as he deliberately filled his large Boer pipe. "And so did you."

"I did!" exclaimed Tiny.

"Yes, a fellow called Piet Van der Wyck," replied the owner of that name gravely.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Colin excitedly. "And what was the place like? How did you manage to get there?"

"Sort of accident," explained Van der Wyck. "You know what a swastika is? Well, years ago, when I was about eighteen or nineteen, I went with a friend, Cornelius Hoog, to Jo'burg for a holiday. Amongst other irresponsible things we did we went to a tattooist's, and the man tattooed a swastika on my arm. Here it is as plain as the day it was done. In '16 I was with Deventer's column operating in the region of Tabora. There I happened to do what you English call a 'good turn' to an induna, or chief. It was quite a trivial thing as far as I was concerned, and at the time I thought nothing of it.

"As a matter of fact, I didn't know the fellow was an induna. Three days later I was out on patrol and we got into a nasty corner—six of us cut off by a couple of hundred Askaris. They got me just as I was getting into my saddle—a soft-nosed bullet through the ankle. What happened after that I have no recollection. None of my comrades returned. Their bodies were found the next day. Read this."

Van der Wyck produced a pocket-book filled with folded papers, many of them torn and faded. Holding the pocket-book in the rays of an electric lamp, for darkness had now fallen over the surface of the tranquil sea, he drew out a scrap of newspaper. On it was printed the names of five men killed in action; below were the words: "Missing, believed killed: P. v. d. Wyck."

"When I recovered consciousness I found myself lying in a kloof. I suppose I had somehow got into the saddle, and my horse had got through and galloped miles. To this day I do not know how I contrived to get away. But I was in a bad state—my ankle pulverised and my horse gone.

"There I lay for three days and three nights, tormented by the sun by day and scared by prowling animals by night. Several times I lost consciousness, and once an assvogal—you'd call it a vulture—sat on my chest and began pecking at my eyes.

"At last I was found by a party of Makoh'lengas. One of them was the induna I had befriended. They were going to carry me back to the laager. If they had I should have doubtless died on the way, for our detachment had moved eighty miles to the south-east.

"Then the induna—Umkomasi was his name—noticed the swastika tattooed on my arm. That was a sort of passport, for the Makoh'lenga have a very similar symbol that is supposed to possess magical properties. In my case it qualified me for admission into the Secret City of Makoh'lenga. I was there eleven weeks. They couldn't save my foot; but they prevented me from having bloodpoisoning and pulled me through a bout of black-water fever. You see, I can speak Zulu, and the Makoh'lenga tongue is a sort of Zulu dialect."

"And what sort of place is Makoh'lenga?" asked Tiny.

Van der Wyck was on the point of answering the question when he leant against the rail and stretched his leg to full length.

"Sort of cramp in my artificial foot," he explained apologetically. "You may think that's an absurd thing to say, but it's a fact. Sometimes I feel sensations just as if my foot were still there. Once, I remember——"

A rending of wood, a stifled exclamation, and a warning shout from Tiny Desmond, and then a heavy splash. A portion of the rail had given way under the pressure of the Afrikander's bulk. Unable to recover his balance, Van der Wyck had fallen overboard.

Colin knew that the man was unable to swim. He rushed to the side and looked down to the phosphorescent water, then with Tiny's shout of "Man overboard!" ringing in his ears, Colin hurled a lifebuoy over, and, regardless of the consequences, almost immediately took a header into the sea.

The Huldebras was doing between sixteen and seventeen knots, which meant that she was forging through the water at the rate of nine yards a second. Consequently Sinclair was hurled obliquely against the surface with terrific force.

Well-nigh winded and swallowing a liberal quantity of the Atlantic, he came to the surface without any rational idea of how he had got "in the ditch." He realised that he was overboard, and that the Huldebras seemed miles away. The blaze of light from her scuttles and portholes was receding rapidly. Something floating on the adjacent water in the ship's wake a good fifty yards away and clearly visible in the starlight attracted his attention. It was the white-painted lifebuoy he had hurled overboard.

Instinct prompted him to strike out for it, and as he swam laboriously—for his limbs, owing to the force with which he had struck the water, seemed almost devoid of action—his reasoning powers began to resume their normal functions.

He remembered Van der Wyck falling overboard. Where was he? To Colin it seemed as if hours had elapsed since he dived, although actually less than a couple of minutes had passed.

Swimming stolidly, Sinclair gained the lifebuoy. It was with a sense of thankfulness that he gripped the rounded, canvas-painted surface. He even suffered the rebuff of a sharp blow on the head as the lifebuoy dipped and capsized under the one-sided weight of the swimmer. Then with more caution, Colin rested one hand lightly on the buoy, and looked for the unfortunate Van der Wyck.

He knew in which direction to look. The Afrikander, if he still remained afloat, must be somewhere in the phosphorescent trail known as the ship's wake.

His quick eyes detected something floating about a hundred yards away, a round black object rising and falling in the undulations caused by the 16,000 tons steamer cutting through the sea at full speed.

Colin, pushing the buoy before him, swam towards the spot where he imagined Van der Wyck to be floating. Before he had covered half the distance he knew that his surmise was correct. It was his cabin-mate.

"Hold up!" he shouted, his voice sounding painfully feeble in the solitude of the night. "I'm coming to you."

Nearer and nearer Colin swam, pushing the buoy in front of him. Van der Wyck was floating perfectly motionless with his arms behind his head. Although he was unable to swim, he possessed sufficient confidence to lie on his back, keep his arms well submerged, and breathe regularly and deeply.

Nevertheless, he was unfeignedly glad to be able to grasp the buoy, but his surprise was unrestrained when he recognised Colin Sinclair. "How on earth——" he began, then, struck by the absurdity of the question, he added: "Did you fall overboard too?"

"Sort of," replied Colin. "Luckily the sea's warm. Wonder how long they'll take to pick us up. Hello, where's the ship now?"

There was no reply from his companion.

Colin repeated the question, conscious for the first time of their joint peril. The Huldebras was no longer in sight.

CHAPTER V

IN THE DITCH—AND OUT

For some moments neither spoke. At length Van der Wyck broke the silence.

"They couldn't stop her all at once," he observed. "She might have gone five miles or more before the engineers got the order to stop. She'll be back again, never you fear."

A swirl of phosphorescent water close to the buoy turned Colin's thoughts in another direction.

"Are there sharks about?" he asked.

"Don't fancy so," replied the Afrikander. "If there are, we'll have to kick and splash. Look here, what did you get into this mess for?"

"I jumped ... on the spur of the moment."

"Sorry you did, eh?"

"No," replied Colin. "I knew you couldn't swim."

"That's a fact," admitted the other bitterly. "A man hasn't much chance to learn to swim on the veldt. See anything coming?"

"White light," replied Colin laconically. "Yes, and red ... and green," added the Afrikander. "It's a ship. Can't be the Huldebras; she was chock-full of lights."

"How can we attract her attention?" asked Sinclair. "We're right in her track."

"Don't know so much about that," declared Van de Wyck. "Her starboard light's disappeared. She's altering her course. But I'll have a try for it, anyway. I haven't broken the company's regulations concerning firearms for nothing."

Hanging on to the buoy with one hand, Van der Wyck produced a revolver from his hip pocket. Holding it well above his head to allow the water to drain from the barrel, he added:

"I don't think it'll burst, but keep your face turned away. Thank goodness I have waterproof cartridges."

A streak of reddish flame, followed by a deafening; report, stabbed the starlit night. For some moments the flash blinded the pair.

"She's still holding on," declared Colin. "Don't know, though. It looks as if she's altering her course again."

"I'll try another shot," decided Van der Wyck. "Fortunately I've about a dozen cartridges besides five in the pistol."

{Illustration: "HE FIRED TWO SHOTS IN QUICK SUCCESSION" [p.[42]}

He fired two shots in quick succession, then handed the still smoking weapon to his companion.

"Keep it out of the water a bit," he said. "My hand's getting rather numb .... She's broadside on to us, I'm afraid. Surely she heard those reports. How long have we been here—an hour?"

Colin could give no definite information on the subject. He was feeling exhausted himself. In spite of the warmness of the water his limbs were stiff and cold. But gamely he held the revolver above the water, while Van der Wyck chafed his own benumbed limbs.

"Time to fire again," he observed. "Hand me the pistol."

Colin, from the opposite side of the buoy, handed him the revolver. He felt Van der Wyck's fingers close over the butt, then he heard a muttered exclamation of annoyance. The revolver, slipping from the Afrikander's nerveless fingers, was sinking rapidly, rapidly through three miles of water to the bed of the Atlantic.

"That's about the limit," he remarked dejectedly. "They'll never find us in the darkness, I'm afraid."

* * * * *

The moment Tiny Desmond realised that his chum had leapt overboard he ran for'ard. His shouts of "Man overboard!" had been heard by a few passengers only, and they were helpless in the matter. The noise of the band had drowned his voice, and the warning was unheard by any of the ship's officers and crew.

Desmond knew his way about the ship by this time. Unhesitatingly, he made straight for the bridge. Charging through crowds of astonished and indignant passengers on the promenade deck, he swarmed up the ladder to the bridge-deck and thence to that forbidden ground, the bridge.

"Two people overboard!" he gasped breathlessly, and then a fit of coughing cut short his excited explanation.

Fortunately the third officer, who happened to be on duty at the time, was a man of resource. Ordering the quartermaster to "port sixteen," or, in other words, to turn the vessel until her head pointed in the opposite direction to her previous course, he promptly rang for half-speed ahead.

By this time the Huldebras was more than seven miles from the scene of the accident. All that could be done was to man one of the boats and stand by until the ship, guided by her wake, approached within reasonable distance of the spot where Van der Wyck had made such a close acquaintance with the Atlantic Ocean.

Meanwhile one of the boats had been swung out, manned and lowered until she was suspended by the falls within a few feet of the surface, ready to slip at the word of command, while in order to prevent the men's eyesight being baffled by the glare, all lights visible from without were switched off, with the exception of the regulation steaming lights.

Tiny, a prey to the deepest forebodings, remained on the bridge, gripping the rails and peering through the semi-darkness. No one paid the slightest attention to him. In the excitement the fact that he was now a trespasser on the bridge passed unnoticed.

The engine-room telegraph bell clanged again. The Huldebras was nearing the spot where it was supposed the lost man had fallen overboard; for with the exception of Desmond no one on board knew that there were two human beings in dire peril.

Suddenly a flash leapt up through the darkness, followed by a hollow report. Mystified, the third officer sprang to the binnacle and took a hurried compass-bearing. Somehow he connected that flash with the man in the water, but he was completely puzzled as to how the signal of distress had been made.

"Did you see that light?" he shouted in stentorian tones to the coxswain of the boat.

"Ay, ay, sir," was the reply.

"Nor-a-half-east it bears," continued the third officer. "I'm taking way off the ship now. Stand by to slip. Less noise there!" he added angrily, addressing his remarks to the now excited throng of passengers.

The alteration of speed had been enough to bring the whole of the saloon and second-class passengers on deck, and the startling information that there was a man overboard raised a storm of eager and for the most part purposeless questions.

The determined voice of one in authority quelled the babel. The third officer's anger was justifiable. It was impossible to issue orders clearly—orders on which success of the evolution depended—with scores of people talking excitedly.

A hush fell upon the throng of passengers. To many of them it was an entirely new experience being dragooned by a mere youngster in a brass-bound uniform, whose stinging commands were punctuated with the picturesque and forcible language of the sea.

The silence was broken by two more reports.

"Slip!" yelled the coxswain.

The patent falls were disengaged. The boat smacked the gently heaving swell with a noise like a pistol-shot.

"Give way! For all you're worth!"

The coxswain's exhortation was a mere figure of speech, for the rowers were straining every muscle and sinew as they urged the boat through the water. Her progress was marked by a double scintillation of phosphorescence as the blades dipped. A wake of blue-grey luminosity showed her course even after the boat itself was a mere blur in the starlit night.

Save for the groan of the rowlocks, the creaking of the stout ash oars and stretchers, the laboured breathing of the rowers, and the splash of water from the boat's sharp stem, hardly a sound broke the silence. The coxswain, holding the tiller with one hand, shaded his eyes with the other as he scanned the expanse of sea.

"Why doesn't the silly josser fire again?" he soliloquised. "'Tis looking for a needle in a bloomin' haystack. Lay on your oars!" he added aloud.

The men obeyed. The boat, still carrying way, slipped through the water with a gurgling sound.

"Hear anything?" asked the coxswain of the crew in general.

He was obviously perplexed. According to his own estimation the boat must have overrun the spot from whence those three flashes came.

"There he is; on our port bow!" shouted the bowman.

"Sure thing," agreed the coxswain. "Give way, lads ... way 'nough. In bow ... Bless me if there ain't two of 'em in the bloomin' ditch."

Ten seconds later Colin Sinclair, limp and barely conscious, was hauled over the bows and passed aft like a sack of flour, to collapse inertly upon the stern-sheet gratings. Van der Wyck followed, muttering his thanks, although in a state of exhaustion.

"May as well hike that buoy on board, Tubby," observed the coxswain dispassionately. "Now, lads, let her rip. It's my middle watch, worse luck."

CHAPTER VI

VAN DER WYCK'S GIFT

"Got 'em, sir. There were two of 'em. All fast, sir!"

"Hoist away!"

Amid ringing and unrestrained cheers from the passengers of the Huldebras the boat and its occupants were whisked up to the davits. Willing hands helped the two rescued men to the deck, where they were at once taken in charge by the ship's doctor.

Once more the twin screws lashed the water, and, gathering way, the Huldebras resumed her interrupted voyage. The passengers went below, and in a very short space of time the forty-minutes wonder was to the majority of them merely an incident.

By noon on the day following, Colin and Van der Wyck were out and about. The former had quite a difficulty to avoid being lionised by the rest of the passengers, for, greatly to his annoyance, Tiny Desmond had related the circumstances under which Colin had leapt overboard.

The Afrikander got off lightly in that respect. He was merely an object of curiosity, and even the newly-repaired rail failed to scotch a rumour that he had deliberately thrown himself into the sea.

He said little about the mishap beyond thanking Colin for saving his life. He quite realised that if the lad had not brought the lifebuoy to within his grasp things would have gone badly with him. But what appeared to trouble him was the fact that he had lost his revolver, and also the mechanism of his artificial foot had been damaged by the salt water.

Although he continued to talk with Colin and Desmond, he never attempted to renew his interrupted account of the wonders of the Secret City of the Makoh'lenga. When Tiny broached the subject he adroitly switched the conversation off into another channel, and Desmond had the good sense to take the hint.

Beyond a mild excitement caused by the report that a first-class passenger had been robbed of a pocket-book containing £500 and a quantity of jewellery, nothing out of the ordinary occurred during the rest of the voyage to Cape Town.

The outlines of the famous Table Mountain were already showing above the horizon, and the end of the voyage in sight when Van der Wyck turned abruptly to his cabin-mate.

Colin and the Afrikander were engaged in packing their cabin-trunks when the latter asked:

"How are you going upcountry?"

"We're taking a boat to Dar-es-Salaam," replied Sinclair, "and then train to Tabora."

"H'm—might almost as well go up from here by train—through Mafeking and Bulawayo to Kambove, and then by steamer across Tanganyika. Don't know, though; perhaps you'd better carry on. We might have kept together as far as Mafeking. But we may run across one another again. If you want to write, Box 445B Mafeking will find me." Colin made a note in his pocket-book of the address.

"And look here," continued Van der Wyck, pushing his portmanteau aside and looking straight at his companion. "Look here, forget all I told you about Makoh'lenga—if you can. It's not exactly—— well, healthy. No white man ever did himself any good by trying to probe the secrets of the place. I'm sorry I ever mentioned the place or the people to you."

The Afrikander's almost fierce earnestness took Colin aback. Naturally the lad wished for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Van der Wyck resumed his packing with almost feverish energy, never saying a word until, with a vicious tug, he secured the buckle of the last strap.

"Yes," he reiterated, apparently regardless of the fact that he had not spoken for quite ten minutes. "I'm sorry I ever mentioned the place. However, what's said cannot be unsaid. I owe you something, Sinclair, for hiking me out of the ditch——"

"No, indeed," interrupted Colin in protest. "You thanked me. That was quite enough."

"It's my call," declared Van der Wyck. "You were a good chum. I'd have thought twice before jumping overboard on a dark night—or in the daytime," he added grimly, "since I can't swim. So I want you to take this as a souvenir."