BAD NEWS
Blake and Joe hardly knew whether to believe the evidence of their
senses or not. To all appearances there, before them, in a narrow bunk,
was C. C. Piper, the erstwhile comedian of the theatrical troupe. And
yet, as they looked at him again, they saw a great change in him. He
was wan, thin, and pale--altogether ill-looking.
“Is--is it really him?” gasped Joe. “It doesn’t seem----”
“I hardly know,” began Blake, “and yet----”
“It’s me, all right, boys,” answered Mr. Piper, and they recognized his
voice, weak as it was.
“His name is Piper,” put in the steward, “and he’s down that way on the
passenger list.”
“But I won’t be here long,” groaned C. C. “I haven’t much longer to
live, boys. That’s why I sent for you.”
“They all imagine that,” whispered the steward to Joe and Blake. “It’s
only a bad case of sea-sickness. He’ll be over it soon. The doctor has
given him some stuff. But they all imagine they’re going to die, and
some of ’em are afraid they won’t. He will be up eating as hearty as an
elephant soon.”
“Never!” cried C. C., gloomily. “I’ll never eat again,” but, even as
he spoke he seemed to have gained a little in hope, since the boys had
come to see him. Blake decided to solve the mystery.
“How under the sun did you come here?” he asked. “The last we heard of
you was that you had taken a few days’ vacation.”
“I decided to take a longer one,” said Mr. Piper, his voice growing
stronger. “When I got away from the theatrical crowd I just couldn’t
bear to go back. I had some money saved up, and the idea of doing more
moving picture dramas was distasteful to me. So I just decided to go to
Africa with you boys.”
“Go to Africa with us!” cried Joe.
“Yes. You won’t object; will you? I’ll pay my own way, and I may
be able to help you. I used to be a good shot, and I have traveled
considerable. I’ve been in India, and shot lions and tigers, to say
nothing of elephants.”
“You have!” exclaimed Blake, with a new admiration for the actor.
“Yes, I know something of big game, though not in Africa. Let me go
along.”
“I haven’t any objections,” spoke Blake, rather glad, on the whole,
that C. C. was along. In spite of his gloom he could be jolly at times.
“Me either,” added Joe. “But how did you happen to come here, and we
not know it?”
“Well, I decided to make it a sort of surprise,” said the actor. “I
learned which ship you were sailing on, and engaged passage. I asked
the purser and captain to keep my name off the list until the last
minute, and they did; so you never saw it. I intended to keep to my
room, or at best go out on deck only at night, until we got to the
other side. I was afraid your father might object,” he said to Joe.
“I guess he’ll be glad to have some one along who knows how to shoot,”
spoke the boy. “Blake and I aren’t much with guns.”
“Well,” went on C. C., “the storm was too much for me. I was afraid I
might die, and I wanted to see you before I went. So I sent for you;
but, I declare, I feel better already.”
“That’s always the way!” declared the steward. “You had better have
something to eat.”
“Eat! Ugh--er--I think I will!” cried Mr. Piper. “It may kill me, but I
might as well die that way as starve. Bring me a good meal, steward,”
and as the man left C. C. told the boys how he had secretly purchased
his ticket, and had sent a note to Mr. Ringold, telling the theatrical
man that he would have to get another comedian.
“It won’t make much difference to him,” said Mr. Piper. “Business is
going to be dull for a time, and he can easily get some one in my place
if he likes. When we come back, after we get your sister,” he said to
Joe, “I can take my old place. But I don’t want to see a moving picture
for a year.”
“We expect to take some,” said Blake, with a smile.
“But not dramas!” cried C. C.
“No, just wild animals, and perhaps scenes with the African natives,”
spoke Joe.
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Piper, and his meal having arrived, he sat
up to it with a relish. The boys could see that he would be all right
soon, and left to tell Mr. Duncan the surprising news.
“Why, no, I haven’t any objection to his accompanying us,” said Joe’s
father, when it had been related to him. “In fact, I think he will
be an advantage. I was thinking of hiring some sort of a hunter to
accompany us, for if we have to go into the jungle we’ll need the
services of a good shot. As it is, I think we will have to hire a
guide--a white man--who will know how to handle the native porters. It
will be necessary to take someone like that with us.”
“I wish the time would pass!” exclaimed Joe. “I’m anxious to get into
the jungle and film an elephant charging, or a lion rushing at us.”
“Yes, as long as he doesn’t rush too close,” put in Blake. “I’m
thinking it’s going to be ticklish work standing up to a charging lion.”
The next day Mr. Piper was well enough to leave his room. He called on
Mr. Duncan, apologized for the unconventional manner in which he had
attached himself to the party, and was made welcome.
Then, for several days, nothing was talked of but the coming trip into
the jungle. Mr. Piper’s experiences in India would serve them all in
good stead, it was felt.
“The three worst animals in Africa,” he said, “are the elephant, lion
and rhinoceros. Some put the cape buffalo in place of the elephant, and
I don’t know but what they are right, in certain sections.”
“How is that?” asked Blake.
“Because you never can tell what they are going to do,” was the answer.
“From what I have read I should put the rhinoceros down as the most
dangerous.”
“Why?” Joe wanted to know.
“Because he seems to act wholly without reason. You never can tell when
one is going to rush on you, and the charge of one of the ungainly
beasts is no joke. You see, their eyesight, like that of the elephant,
is very poor. They depend altogether on their hearing and sense of
smell, both of which are very acute. Once they scent, or hear, what
they think is an enemy they charge blindly. Their rush, their great
weight and the ripping power of their horns is enormous. Natives have
been impaled through their hip bones by rhinoceroses, and tossed into
the jungle to die, merely because they passed by a place where a rhino
was sleeping.
“So you never can tell what they may do. You may pass one without the
least intention of harming it, but it may blindly rush you, and, if you
don’t stop it with a bullet, you are likely to be killed.
“Buffaloes are much the same, but they are less erratic. You can more
easily figure on what they will do. Elephants and lions will seldom
charge, unless you persistently hunt them. They prefer to run along and
mind their own affairs. Rhinos and buffaloes do not. But we’ll see what
happens when we get to the jungle, boys.”
“Oh, I do hope we can get some good pictures!” exclaimed Blake, and
Joe echoed the desire.
The voyage passed off without incident. They made a stop of a few days
in Naples, and inspected some of the Italian moving picture studios. Of
late, several Italian firms had entered the business, making elaborate
films of historical subjects, and Joe and Blake were interested in
noting their methods.
“But they all have to come to the United States for one thing,” said
Blake, after a tour of one of the largest factories.
“What’s that?” asked Joe.
“The perforations in the edges of the film, by which it is moved in the
camera or projector. They all have to conform to the standard adopted
by Thomas A. Edison, when he first turned out a moving picture.”
This is a well-known fact; all films, whether domestic or foreign, have
the same number of perforations per inch, on each side of the film, as
that adopted by the celebrated inventor of West Orange, New Jersey,
several years ago. It is a tribute to an American genius, and the boys,
though so far from home, felt a sense of nearness as they wandered
through the Italian studio and saw the Edison standard perforation
gauge being used.
From Naples they took another German line steamer for Suez, thence to
go to Mombasa. Now they began to get sight of foreigners other than
Europeans, for there were both African and East Indians aboard, and
there were many interesting sights.
Nothing of importance occurred until reaching Suez, and there more
foreign types were noticed. And it was here that they received their
first bad news.
They were just about to embark for the last stage of their journey,
to Mombasa, when Joe and Blake came aboard with a copy of an English
paper printed there. They were idly scanning the news, hoping to see
something from their own land, when Joe uttered a cry, as he stared at
a certain paragraph.
“What is it?” asked Blake.
“Bad news,” replied his chum. “I wonder if we can keep this from Dad?”
He pointed to few lines, which read:
“Latest advices from Entebbe state that the native uprisings at
Kargos, a missionary station, are more serious than at first
supposed. The whole missionary settlement was wiped out, and the
missionaries, a Mr. Brown and his wife, were taken into the interior
by the natives. It is understood that the Home Office will take
immediate action, though the missionaries were United States
subjects. The American consul has made an appeal for help.”
“That’s fierce!” cried Joe. “That’s where my sister was--at Kargos,
near Entebbe. Now she’s been carried off into the jungle.”
“It doesn’t say so,” spoke Blake, clinging to a last hope.
“No, but if Mr. and Mrs. Brown have been carried off, it is likely that
Jessie went with them. This sure is tough!”
“What is?” asked Mr. Duncan, as he approached the lads. Joe tried to
hide the paper, but too late.