PURSUIT

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19201, 15 October 1930, Page 14

PURSUIT

[Copyright Reserved.]

A NOVEL BY

ROLAND PERTWEE

“ Hold that fast which thou hast That no man take thy cro-wn.” [HI.]

m in m & m m & m m m m s m ss m s: m ® w s CHAPTER V.—(Continued). “ Ashreiri,” said Harley, speaking for the first time, “ What are they doing ? ” Ashrem translated the question in a native dialect and received a whispered answer. “ A hole,” he said. “ They pick at the mortar with their nails to make a hole.” Taking a long breath Harley crawled over to inspect. Around the sides and base of a stone, the width of a man’s shoulders, the industrious trio had scraped deep into the-wall. Here and there, where the mortar had perished, they had delved in to the length of. a rnan’s hand. In one .spot a pin point of light showed beyond, which, acting like the lens of a camera, threw a pic-: ture of palm tops and sky upon the bare knee of one of the natives. Harley kicked at the stone, but it did not budge. “ Ashrem,” ; he said, “ put your back against mine and line up these fellows to brace yourself against. That’s the way—now, when I give the word shove like hell.*’.

Grasping the idea, the natives spanned the floor with their feet against each other’s backs. The last man had the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands pressed to the opposite wall. With his back against Ashrem’s and both feet pressed against the stone Harley gave the word to shove. In the seconds that followed the five prisoners shoved until their arteries nearly burst. It was the middle man who had the worst of the squeeze. He got it coining and going. As the stone shifted he let go a screech which could be heard for miles, but since screams issuing from that prjson house were no unusual event, the sentry did not disturb himself to inquire into the cause. But the stone had moved, and moved a great deal further than Harley intended. Before he could relax the pressure it had toppled outward from the wall. If Harley had not had the inspiration to bellow at the top of his voice and drown the sound of its fall, in all probability their work would have been wasted. % But nothing more than a yell was heard, and the stone, falling into a mass of creepers, rolled solemnly and silently into the valley below. In the hush that followed a rush of pure air, refreshed by the night’s rain, filled the prison, bringing with it fresh life and hope. Flat on his chest Harley, wormed his head and shoulders through the gap and looked out. Beneath him the outer wall of the fortress fell some twelve feet into a network of brambly undergrowth. To the right was the broken parapet, and fifty yards distant the green canvas top of Fawlk’s tent. The hole they had made was in the extreme right corner of the little prison, and Harley reckoned that by working oneself outward on one’s back and then straightening to a sitting posture it would be possible to get an arm over the parapet and hang there until the next man wriggled through and secured a hand hold. This order could be repeated until the last man was free. The success of the operation would depend upon the length of chain between each of the collars. At a guess it looked as if they might count on there being just enough to do it. If there were not enough the consequences were liable to be unpleasant. In his own case, with ten feet of chain to juggle with, Harley’s chances were pretty good. As first man through the hole he would be in a position to help the others. For that matter he had chain enough to let himself down to the ground, but this did not obtain with the rest, for a man with a steel collar separated by five feet of chain from another man in a similar case cannot effect a twelve foot jump with any degree of confidence. It was clearly the better plan to go up rather than down. Harley was measuring distances in his mind w T hen a burst of shouting and singing broke out from somewhere perilous! y near. Bringing his head round he saw, through a tapestry of palm leaves, not twenty yards distanct, a number of Fawlk’s bearers moving along a pathway below. They were carrying poles from which depended huge and grotesque masses of raw flesh. A breath of hot wind stirring among the trees brought to his nostrils the blood smell as of a slaughter-house. From the cell behind him, into which the odour had penetrated, came guttural “ Aahs ” and the juicy sound of smacking lips. The Somali boys had smelt blood and the meat lust was upon them. The sentry posted outside

) @3! SB SB ®iU S 3 S&EEE BSISISISI HE SB ES3 9 the door had smelt it, too, and, beating a tattoo upon his stomach, he broke into the “ Song of Plenty.” Harley felt himself seized by the ankles and hauled . back into the cell. . “Your coat, master, quick, your coat.” Before he had time to realise why, Ashrem had stripped off Harley’s coat, and, winding it about the waist of the smallest of the Somali boys, he bent the creature double and thrust his apex into the gap where the stone had been. Stay there, dog, for ii you move before night you die by my hands.” Then, turning to Harley, Ashrem explained. The master’s coat is the same colour as the stone. If those below, hearing the sentry’s song, had looked up ” There was no need to say more and Ashrem directed liis thoughts into pleasanter avenues. “My children,” he chanted, “by the mercy of Allah and the wisdom of this great lord and mighty hunter, to-night we shall go free.” But the natives had smelt elephant meat and moaned because their bellies were empty, beside which freedom was of small account. CHAPTEK^I. Throughout the afternoon and into the night there was singing and dancing and feasting in the camp of Evan Fawlk. Never since the journey started had there been siich an orgy of meat as was now provided. Stuffed and comatose they slept and snored with gobbets of flesh strewn on the ground about them. 3t .was an immortal feast. Even the sentrv outside the prison house dozed at his post, lolling against the door, puffing and blowing like a hippo from the weight of food with which he was encumbered. , At ten o’clock Evan Fawlk made his rounds, pausing outside the prison door to wish Harlejr a good night. To his surprise Harley returned the greeting with excellent good humour. “ I trust you find the company in there, agreeable, Trevelyan.” “I find it preferable to some I shall have to put up with.” Evan Fawlk said no more. He felt childishly hurt. The answer had pricked his pride. Hatred and rancour were to be expected from his captive, but schoolboy cheekiness was insufferable. After a day in that foul hole there was no excuse for a man’s spirit to run so high. lantern in his tent he threw himself on the bed and tried to read, but the book—a treatise on contemporary French painters—failed to hold his attention. What Harley had said that morning rankled bitterly, “ Always someone else to do your dirty work.” That was unjust—unappreciative—typical of the kind of man who settled disputes with two hands and no imagination. Surely imagination deserved its measure of praise. He thought how misunderstood, how he had always been. It was true that natives stood in awe of him, but he could not recall a single white man who had ever paid him the tribute of being afraid. In the war he had broken many men and brought others to the pitch of mutiny —but in the war his commands had been supported and controlled by regulations and military law. What fear he had then inspired was fear of the machine he represented and not of himself as an individual. And now that he had been given the opportunity to make a man afraid, he was already beginning to doubt his ability to bring it off. Standing critically apart and looking at himself as someone else, Evan Fawlk saw that before him lay the supreme test of character, the chance to prove whether he was the man he believed himself to be, or merely a shell as Harley Trevelyan had declared. A sudden desire possessed him to send for Harley and argue the point. Words had always been his best weapon—the strop upon which he whetted his energies to the performance of any given task—but on reflection he realised the weakness of such an act. He had told Harley what he meant to do and it only remained to carry it out. It was childish to call upon the stimulus of argument before putting a threat into action. Rising on his elbow he blew out the light and tucking his revolver under his pillow settled gloomily in the dark. > (To be Continued.)