CONCLUSION
Sharp at 8 o’clock, Mr. Hampton and Mr. Ransome set off the rockets
in the square. And as they went up with their comet’s tail of fire,
the “Ohs” and “Ahs” of the natives could be heard all over the big
enclosure ringed by its grass-thatched huts and lighted by a fire
flaming in the center.
Then Mr. Hampton, who stood full in the glare, held up his hand for
silence, and the interpreter cried that now the Great Spirit of the
white men was about to speak.
To one side of the fire stood Chief Namla and beside him The
Prophet, bespectacled and wrapped in a long white cotton robe. He
looked both scornful and, to the keen discerning eyes of the only
other white men, worried.
As for them, they were worried, too. They had cast all on this throw
of the dice. Would they win or lose? Would everything go as planned?
Or had Jack failed to connect the radio properly? Or had Frank and
Bob fallen down on their part of the job?
Silence filled the great square, a silence accentuated by the deep
breathing of the hundreds assembled, who waited for they knew not
what.
Then it came. And what a feeling of relieved thankfulness filled the
hearts and minds of the white men. Except The Prophet. He started in
amazement, stared all about him as if in search of that strange
voice—the voice of Samba speaking weighty words in the native
tongue. As the voice concluded, amidst a stunned silence which had
fallen upon the multitude, leaving them breathless, awe-stricken,
mute. The Prophet turned furiously toward Mr. Hampton.
“Pig, dog,” he cried, in a voice made squeaky by rage. “I might have
known. It is only the radio. I shall show you up.”
But he went alone. Of all those hundreds of natives who heretofore
had been his admirers, his followers, almost his slaves, none would
have dreamed of invading The Prophet’s hut whence that voice came.
Mr. Hampton chuckled, and leaning close to his companion whispered:
“Jack was right. A scientific man couldn’t be fooled, but would
realize we were using the radio. He is falling right into our trap.”
Just what he meant could have been understood by anyone inside The
Prophet’s hut. For as the furious man, speeding to search for the
radio receiving set which he now realized must have been concealed
somewhere within, entered the pitch black darkness of the interior,
strong hands closed about his throat, throttling all possibility of
outcry. And then a gag was thrust into his mouth, and he was
propelled through the parted thatch of the rear wall, Where a
half-score armed men tossed him up on a rude litter which they
raised to their shoulders, after which they trotted off down the
alley between the huts and the wattled wall of the chief’s courtyard
and were lost in the darkness.
As they melted away in the night, going in the direction of the
mountain wall, eight miles away, upon which lay the expedition’s
camp, Jack looking after them heaved a tremendous sigh of relief.
“Whew,” he remarked to Niellsen. “I’m glad that’s done. But it
worked to perfection, didn’t it?”
Jack was correct. Men, women and children, every inhabitant of the
village was in the square. And, therefore, none saw the shadowy
forms of the guards pass between the last huts on the outskirts and
disappear with their burden.
Nor were they destined ever to see The Prophet again. For, looking
ahead, it may be stated that, kept a close prisoner but well treated
during the ensuing weeks of the expedition’s stay in that region,
The Prophet, whose real name was Professor von Hertwig, was turned
over on the return of the expedition to civilization to the Belgian
authorities. Examined by alienists and pronounced insane, he was
ordered sent to an asylum in Belgium. But on his way down to the
coast under guard he contracted a tropical fever which caused his
death.
That the man had not been acting solely on his own initiative but
had been the tool of cunning minds still at large was the belief of
Mr. Ransome, a belief in which Mr. Hampton concurred. But for the
time being these “higher ups” remained quiet, and no trace of them
could be found.
No trace of Mabele could be found, either. And it seemed likely that
he had, indeed, been lost in the storm which swept Lake Victoria the
day his stolen canoe was found overturned offshore. As to the radio
set of which he had robbed the boys, it still is in all likelihood
mouldering in its hiding place near Chief Ungaba’s village. But as
they never again passed that way, they could not very well organize
an expedition to hunt for it.
A month more the party spent in the Mountains of the Moon,
photographing the volcanoes and obtaining some very excellent
pictures of lions, leopards, Uganda cobb, elephants, herds of topi,
reed-buck, hippopotami and wart-hog. Their bag of animals shot by
rifle instead of camera also grew apace.
As for the natives, they could not do enough to display hospitality
toward the expedition. For the story of the voice from the sky which
had condemned The Prophet to his doom passed from mouth to mouth
throughout the vast district faster than if it had been telegraphed,
it seemed. At any rate, it had preceded the party wherever they
went. And it grew in the telling, so that before long the natives
were telling of how after the voice from the sky had spoken, The
Prophet was seized by red demons and hurried away into the bowels of
Tamlagira, which opened to admit them, displaying the eternal fires
of hell leaping high.
Toward the end of their stay, the members of the expedition made
their way to Lake Kivu, cupped gem-like amidst the mountains of the
mighty Ruwenzori range. And here, in what is perhaps the only
considerable body of water in all equatorial Africa which is free of
crocodiles, the boys spent their days mainly in or on the water
until finally the last leg of their wonderful trip was made to a
little port on the western shore of Lake Victoria, whence they were
carried by steamer to Kisumu and by rail to Nairobi.
There, after assembling their thousands of feet of film and their
many trophies of hide and horn, they went by rail to Mombasa and
after shipping by coastal steamer to Zanzibar, transshipped to a
larger vessel which carried them up through the Suez Canal to
Marseilles. And so at length, aboard a great trans-Atlantic liner,
the Radio Boys returned to New York.
Historic though their trip had been, never had they been so glad to
see the Goddess of Liberty. As they moved slowly up the harbor in
the tow of puffing, busy little tugs, all three lined the rail and
solemnly saluted her.
With this, we shall bid farewell to the Radio Boys for the time
being, feeling assured that, no matter what their future adventures,
if they acquit themselves as well as in Darkest Africa they will be
doing well, indeed.
THE END.