Guy in the Jungle: or, A Boy's Adventure in the Wilds of Africa. Graydon William Murray
was inclined to be sociable.
"Ah, an Englishman," he said, coming up to Guy and holding out his hand, an action which Guy professed not to see.
"You are going to Berbera, perhaps," he went on, nowise discomfited by the rebuff.
"No," said Guy shortly. "To Zaila."
"Ah, yes, Zaila! You have friends there, perhaps? I, too, am acquainted. I know very well Sir Arthur Ashby, the governor at Zaila."
His keen eyes scanned Guy's face closely, and noted the faint gleam of surprise at this information.
But Guy was too clever to be thrown off his guard.
"Yes," he said. "I know some people here. I have not the pleasure of Sir Arthur's acquaintance."
He would have turned away at this point, but the man pulled a card from his pocket and presented it to him. Guy glanced it over with interest:
"A vile Portuguese slave-hunter," he thought to himself.
"Well, Mr. Torres," he said. "I am sorry that I have no cards about me, but my name is Chutney."
The Portuguese softly whispered the name once or twice. Then, without further questioning, he offered Guy a cigar, and lit one himself.
Manuel Torres proved to be quite an interesting companion, and gave Guy a vivid account of the wonders of the fair.
As they went below at dinner time he pointed out on the corner of the dock a great stack of wooden boxes.
"Those are mine," he said. "They contain iron and steel implements for the natives and Arabs."
"They look like rifle cases," Guy remarked carelessly; and, looking at the Portuguese as he spoke, he fancied that the dark face actually turned gray for an instant. In a moment they were seated at the table, and the brief occurrence was forgotten.
All that afternoon they steamed on across the gulf, overhead the blue and cloudless sky, beneath them waters of even deeper blue, and at sunset the yellow coast line of the African continent loomed up from the purple distance.
Guy had been dozing under an awning most of the afternoon, but now he came forward eagerly to get his first glimpse of eastern Africa.
To his great disappointment, the captain refused to land.
It was risky, he said, to make a landing at night, and it would be dark when they entered the harbor. They must lie at anchor till morning.
Most of the night Guy paced up and down the deck sleeping at brief intervals, and listening with eager curiosity to the strange sounds that floated out on the air from the shore, where the flickering glare of many torches could be seen.
Stretched on a mattress, the Portuguese slept like a log, without once awakening.
Before dawn the anchors were lifted, and at the captain's suggestion Guy hastened down to his cabin to gather up his scanty luggage, for most of his traps had gone on to Calcutta in the Cleopatra.
He buckled on his sword, put his revolvers in his pocket, clapped his big solar topee on his head, and then reached down for the morocco traveling case which he had stored away for better security under his berth.
A cry of horror burst from his lips as he dragged it out. The lock was broken, and the sides were flapping apart. For one brief second he stared at it like a madman, and then, with frantic haste, he fell on his knees, and, plunging his hands inside, began to toss the contents recklessly out upon the floor. Toilet articles, linen, cigars, writing-paper, jewelry, and various other things piled up until his finger nails scraped the bottom. He turned the case bottom up and shook it savagely, shook it until the silver clasps rattled against the sides, and then he sank back with a groan, while the drops of perspiration chased each other down his haggard cheeks.
The precious despatches were gone.
For the time being Guy was fairly driven out of his senses by the horror of the calamity. Ruin stared him in the face. What madness it was to leave those papers in his cabin! He had foolishly hesitated to carry them on his person for fear the perspiration would soak them through and through, and now they were hopelessly lost. The cabin door had been locked, too. The thief must have had a key.
The first shock over, his manliness asserted itself, and he took a critical view of the situation. He hardly suspected any person as yet. The despatches must be recovered. That was the first step.
He flew up the stairs, three at a time, and rushed panting and breathless upon deck.
All about him was the hurry and bustle of preparation. The shore was close at hand, and the steamer was moving toward the rude wharf. Manuel Torres was leaning over the rail, coolly smoking a cigar. The captain stood near by, gazing intently at the shore. He looked up with wonder as Guy appeared, crying out in hoarse tones:
"I have been robbed, captain, treacherously robbed. Documents of the greatest importance have been stolen from my cabin, and not a soul shall leave this steamer till every inch of it has been searched. I demand your assistance, sir!"
CHAPTER II.
A STRANGE MEETING
Torres looked up in apparent surprise from his cigar, and the captain's ruddy face flashed a shade deeper.
"Are you sure, sir?" he cried. "This is a strange place for a robbery."
Guy turned on him hotly.
"A robbery has been committed, nevertheless, and the articles stolen are despatches for the governor of Zaila. They were intrusted to me for delivery, and I look to you to recover them."
"Ah! Government despatches, were they?" said the captain. "Just step below and we'll look into the matter."
They turned toward the cabin, leaving the Portuguese still gazing over the rail.
At the foot of the steps the captain stopped.
"Why, what's this?" he said, stooping down and pulling from under the lowest step a bunch of papers.
"The stolen despatches!" cried Guy wildly. "But look! The seals have been broken."
Together they inspected the documents. Each envelope had been opened, but the contents appeared to be all right. The thief had plainly been satisfied with their perusal.
"Whoever stole them," said the captain, "was afraid to retain them lest a search should be made, and as he had no way to destroy them he tossed them down here where they could easily be found."
"Who else had a key to my cabin?" Guy asked sternly.
"The key to Torres' cabin will open yours," replied the captain, "and several of the crew also have keys."
"Then Torres is the man," said Guy. "The scoundrel looks capable of anything."
"I wouldn't advise you to accuse him," said the captain gravely. "He may cause trouble for you on shore. You must remember that British influence is little felt at Berbera. Your best plan is to say nothing, but relate the whole affair to the governor at Zaila. And now, as we may lie in the harbor here all day, you had better go on shore. You will see a strange sight."
Guy put the recovered documents away in an inner pocket, and followed the captain on deck, in a very angry frame of mind. Torres had disappeared, but Guy felt that he had not seen the last of him.
He half forgot his anger in the strange sight that now met his eyes, for the steamer was just approaching the wharf, and in a moment the gang-plank was dropped over the side.
He waited until the eager, jostling crowd of Arabs had passed over, and then he made his way to shore. The spectacle before him was marvelous and entrancing.
Extending apparently for miles up and down the yellow stretch of sand that fringed the coast was one great sea of canvas that fluttered under the African breeze.
There were tents of every description, some old and dingy, some spotlessly white and shining, and others brilliant in many colors, barred with red and green and yellow, while here and there, from their midst, rose the sun-baked walls and towers of the original Berbera, for all