THE RADIO BOYS IN DARKEST AFRICA
[Illustration: “You certainly won his heart that time, Bob. Look at his
face if you want to see real amazement.”]
THE RADIO BOYS IN DARKEST AFRICA
By GERALD BRECKENRIDGE
Author of
“The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border,” “The Radio
Boys with the Revenue Guards,” “The Radio Boys
on Secret Service Duty,” “The Radio Boys
Search for the Inca’s Treasure,” “The Radio
Boys Rescue the Lost Alaska Expedition”
“The Radio Boys Seek the Lost Atlantis.”
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
THE
RADIO BOYS SERIES
A SERIES OF STORIES FOR BOYS OF ALL AGES
By GERALD BRECKENRIDGE
The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border
The Radio Boys on Secret Service Duty
The Radio Boys with the Revenue Guards
The Radio Boys Search for the Inca’s Treasure
The Radio Boys Rescue the Lost Alaska Expedition
The Radio Boys Seek the Lost Atlantis
The Radio Boys In Darkest Africa
Copyright, 1923
By A. L. BURT COMPANY
THE RADIO BOYS IN DARKEST AFRICA
Made in “U. S. A.”
THE RADIO BOYS IN DARKEST AFRICA.
CHAPTER I.
WIMBA’S TRIAL
“Look here, Jack, we ought to do something to help Wimba. I don’t
believe he’s getting a square deal.”
“Nor I, Frank. But what can we do? Chief Ruku-Ru is supreme here.
And if he decides against Wimba—”
Jack Hampton’s tone was as near hopeless as one could ever expect to
hear from the lips of that optimistic young adventurer.
Nor is that to be wondered at. The predicament of their head man,
Wimba, a Kikuyu of superior parts whose services they had been
fortunate enough to obtain at Nairobi, administrative capital of
British East Africa or Kenya Colony, was serious.
Here on the far fringe of the Kikuyu country, several hundred miles
from Nairobi, the nearest outpost of white civilization in Central
Africa, Wimba was being tried on a charge of murder. Chief Ruku-Ru,
head of the local tribesmen, presiding as judge, gave every
indication of being about to sentence Wimba to death.
And the two boys knew Wimba was innocent. They believed the latter’s
story. Wimba said he had come upon two local tribesmen stealing from
the effects of his employers and that, when discovered, they had
attacked him. Fighting in self-defense he had been unfortunate
enough to kill one, whereupon the other had run to Chief Ruku-Ru
with the tale that Wimba had murdered his comrade.
During the course of the trial, which was being held beneath a great
thorn tree, Jack Hampton and Frank Merrick had been breathless
spectators. Their companion. Bob Temple, lay weak from fever in his
tent, and could not be present.
In an old armchair which had been brought by a trader years before
to this remote village, sat Chief Ruku-Ru, as if in a throne. His
hair was drawn to a knob on the very top of his round head. His
black face was preternaturally grave as became an administrator of
justice. Around his neck were a half dozen strands of copper wire.
His arms were covered from wrist to elbow with bracelets of similar
material. Thrown across his right shoulder and drawn together
beneath his left armpit was the single cotton garment which
constituted his only clothing. And in his right hand he held a
number of small sticks. These were important. If the prosecution
scored a point in the testimony, he planted a stick in the ground on
the right. If Wimba’s defense scored a point, he planted a stick on
his left. At the end of the trial, he would count the number of
sticks in each row and that side having the greater number would
win.
This much had been explained to the boys by Wimba’s assistant, an
intelligent young Kikuyu named Matse. But the latter’s command of
English was not much to lean upon, and he could not inform the boys
of every point in the case. From him, however, they had learned
enough to realize that Wimba was drawing near the end of his
defense, and that the prosecution had the better of it. The pile of
sticks on the right was larger.
“If only Dad was here,” groaned Jack, in a whisper.
But Mr. Hampton, together with Oscar Niellsen, their cameraman, was
off on an expedition to photograph wild animals at a water hole many
miles away.
Frank squirmed at his companion’s side. “Jack, I’ve got an idea.
It’s a long chance, but it may work.”
“What is it?”
For a minute or two Frank whispered in Jack’s ear, and the latter’s
face lighted up.
“What do you think of it?” asked Frank, in conclusion, drawing back.
“Will it work?”
“We’ll chance it,” whispered Jack, in reply, nodding. “But you’ll
have to be quick. Now scud away with Matse and leave me to do my
part.” Without further waste of words or time, Frank drawing the
young Kikuyu interpreter after him drew back amongst the
grass-thatched huts of the Kikuyu village fringing the council
square.
His departure was unnoticed by the big crowd of tribesfolk gathered
in a circle, and hanging upon the progress of the trial.
The minutes passed and with the passage of each one Jack grew more
anxious. But presently Frank again slipped into position beside him.
“Thank goodness,” he whispered, breathlessly, “that we rigged up
that loudspeaker in the council tree last night.”
“Yes,” replied Jack, “and that we haven’t had a chance to try it out
yet. Nobody knows it’s there, But was Bob all right?”
“A little weak yet,” replied Frank. “But he took charge of
operations, all right. Was tickled to death.”
“Well, we meant to give them a concert out of the council tree,”
said Jack. “But this will be better. Wonder we didn’t think of it
before.”
“Oh, well,” replied Frank, “so long as the idea came to us in time,
what does it matter?”
“But Matse?” asked Jack, anxiously. “Does he understand the part
he’ll have to play? Will he handle it all right?”
Frank smiled confidently. “When I give him the signal,” he said,
“Matse will do his part, never fear. He’d undertake anything in
order to save Wimba. But we’re not out of the woods yet, Jack. We
don’t know what’s going on. Oh, if we only had another boy who could
speak English and could translate this for us.”
Jack gripped his companion’s arm. “Look, Frank, the trial is over.
Now Chief Ruku-Ru is about to pronounce sentence. See. Wimba is
staring hard at us. Poor fellow, he believes his end has come and
what a look of dumb appeal. Up, Frank, it’s time to act I’m sure.”
From their place on the outskirts and a little to one side of the
semi-circle of savages, Frank and Jack rose with white determined
faces and advanced the few steps necessary to bring them face to
face with Chief Ruku-Ru seated opposite across the open space
surrounding him.
The tall warriors forming the chief’s guard, coal-black, six foot
tall, magnificent specimens of manhood, stood aghast. What did the
white strangers contemplate?
Chief Ruku-Ru half rose from his chair in anger at this
interruption. But before he could give a command to have the boys
seized, if such discourtesy to his guests was contemplated, Jack
holding himself proudly erect addressed the throne.
“Oh, great chief,” he cried in English, “we be strangers in your
land, it is true. Yet have we watched with interest the progress of
this trial, and your impartial conduct. But we believe you have been
deceived by liars amongst those who seek Wimba’s life. Therefore we
appeal to our gods to speak from the sky and tell you the truth.
Wimba,” he commanded, “tell the chief what I have said. Forget
nothing. There will be a voice from the sky and in the chief’s own
language. Do not fear. But speak quickly.”
From his position between two tall Kikuyu warriors, Wimba who stood
to the left of the chief, had been listening in blankest
astonishment. His strong face with the thin lips and intelligent
lines of many of the Kikuyu tribesmen had betrayed as much despair
as his self-restraint under ordeal would permit him to betray, when
Jack had begun to speak. But now not only the despair but the
succeeding astonishment disappeared.
“Speak Wimba,” commanded Jack. “Remember what you placed in the
council tree for us last night.”
He was safe, he knew, in thus reminding Wimba, as none in the
audience had any knowledge of English. And he had explained enough
of the mysteries of radio the previous night, when the entire
village slept after heavy potations of native beer following a royal
reception to the new guests, to give Wimba confidence now that Jack
would be able as he promised to bring a voice seemingly out of the
sky.
At any rate, Wimba was in a desperate situation. He was ready to
grasp at any straw. Gazing about he saw the multitude of natives
crowding close, awaiting the verdict. He saw Chief Ruku-Ru
open-mouthed at the white boy’s interruption. He knew if he were
going to act, he must act at once. Otherwise the chief would order
the interrupters seized, perhaps; and most certainly would order him
slain.
And he could not contemplate being staked out on an ant hill with
equanimity.
Bowing low, Wimba addressed Chief Ruku-Ru in a loud voice. The boys
could not understand his words, for he spoke in the Kikuyu tongue.
But they could perceive that he was making their startling
announcement, for over the chief’s face spread a look of startled
bewilderment while through the swarm of natives sweeping around
behind them in a semi-circle passed a murmur like a wind rippling
the surface of a lake.
They watched Wimba closely, and saw the perspiration burst on his
face. He was speaking in deadly earnestness, for it was a matter of
life or death to him.
When Wimba ceased, Chief Ruku-Ru appeared to pull himself together
and he addressed a few sharp words to Wimba in a contemptuous tone.
“He’s scared, but doesn’t want to show it,” was Jack’s whispered
comment.
Frank nodded, but did not reply. His face was on that of Wimba. He
knew the crisis had come. And the prisoner’s words confirmed his
belief.
“Bring the voice from the sky, baas,” said Wimba. “The chief says he
does not believe, but he is afraid.”
Frank was pale as death. Stepping a few paces in front of Jack, he
paused in the middle of the open space before Chief Ruku-Ru’s
armchair throne. Then lifting his eyes skyward, as if appealing to
some Deity in the brazen vault overhead, he put his fingers between
his lips and emitted a piercing whistle. Once, twice, thrice, it
shrilled.
Silence.
Over all that assemblage of savage black men, over the group of
bearers cowering to one side, awaiting the verdict upon their
comrade, over the old gray-haired elders in a knot near the chief,
over the tall warriors of the guard with their spears, over the ring
of warriors with their shields of painted bullock and elephant hide
on the ground before them, over the pushing mass of women and
children behind, spread a deathlike silence.
Every eye was lifted in awe. Every face gazed skyward. The words of
the white young men as interpreted by Wimba had spread unbelievable
amazement. They waited, fascinated, half believing, half terrified,
for the voice from the sky which the white men had promised.
Then it came.
From the top of the great council tree apparently boomed out a voice
in the Kikuyu tongue. It was a voice unknown to them all. It was a
voice the volume of which seemed supernatural. Yet every word was
clear. And this great voice cried:
“Oh, Chief Ruku-Ru, great amongst the Kikuyus, I am the spirit
invoked by the white men. Their fate is in my keeping. I watch over
them and their servants. And I tell you that Wimba is guiltless. Let
but a hair of his head be touched and thy village shall be levelled,
thy people destroyed by plague, thy cattle die, thy springs dry up.
I have spoken. Set Wimba free or these things shall come to pass. It
is an order.”