T.C. Bridges

Dartmoor Legacy

Warsaw 2019

Contents

ADVERTISEMENT FOR "DARTMOOR HERITAGE."

CHAPTER 1. A SHOT ON THE MOOR

CHAPTER 2. "TOO MUCH MONEY."

CHAPTER 3. IN THE SILENT MINE

CHAPTER 4. UNDER THE FALLING ROOF

CHAPTER 5. "YOU LOOK PROSPEROUS."

CHAPTER 6. "NO VIOLENCE—REMEMBER!"

CHAPTER 7. MIAMI FLIGHT

CHAPTER 8. ABOARD THE MOCASSIN

CHAPTER 9. "WE DON'T WANT STRANGERS."

CHAPTER 10. THE SCOWLING HOST

CHAPTER 11. MR CABOT—WITH MACHINE- GUN

CHAPTER 12. INVADER'S ULTIMATUM

CHAPTER 13. BOB'S COUNTER- ATTACK

CHAPTER 14. WORTH THE HAZARDS

CHAPTER 15. THE SECRET OF COTTONMOUTH KEY

CHAPTER 16. STRANDED IN A SWAMP

CHAPTER 17. FORESTALLED BY TIBER

CHAPTER 18. THE CRUISE OF THE CAT- BOAT

CHAPTER 19. SETTLEMENT AT SEA

CHAPTER 20. TIBER TRIES AGAIN

CHAPTER 21. A LETTER FOR BOB

CHAPTER 22. "SHE'S AFTER US."

CHAPTER 24. DENE HAS TALKED

CHAPTER 25 "I'LL BURN YOU."

CHAPTER 26. GUN-FIRE FROM THE SEA

CHAPTER 27. FINISH FOR THE FLAME

CHAPTER 28. HALFORD TURNS TRAITOR

CHAPTER 29. DENE DECIDES

CHAPTER 30. ADVENTURE FOR TWO

CHAPTER 31. CABOT TRIUMPHS

CHAPTER 32. THE ENEMY COMES BACK

CHAPTER 33. ABE'S CHANCE

CHAPTER 34. RAFFY IS ROUSED

CHAPTER 35. BATTLE

CHAPTER 36. PETE ON THE JOB

CHAPTER 37. DENE'S LAST EXIT

CHAPTER 38. HUMAN BAIT

CHAPTER 39. STORM AT DAWN

CHAPTER 40. CABOT BEATS THE AMBUSH

CHAPTER 41. "I'LL SHOOT THEM!"

CHAPTER 42. HALFORD SHOWS HIS METTLE

ADVERTISEMENT FOR “DARTMOOR HERITAGE.”

TREASURE WITHOUT A SPARKLE. SPADEFUL OF CLAY HERALDS A FORTUNE

IT is customary to think of treasure in terms of gold and gems. But in the prosaic world of mining a spadeful of the most unattractive stuff can be a clue to a fortune.

That is how it was at Bar Tor farm on Dartmoor, a property in the possession of young Robert Hamlyn. Be low the red earth of Devon was found a deposit of china clay whose value, though not fantastic, was big enough to set the finders inquiring about the possibilities of buying the whole property.

Their idea was to get it before Robert Hamlyn realised that he had a concealed asset worth far more than the whole of his agricultural land. But they did not outwit him.

Thus frustrated, they were able to reveal that Hamlyn’s title to the property was not good. He had inherited it from a cousin, Mark Hingston, whose death had been legally presumed.

Hingston was not dead. He was living out in Florida, but the two men who knew the truth are behind the attempt to buy Bar Tor. Since Hamlyn’s possession of the property is no longer legal, these two set out for Florida to get Hingston to assign the property before he knows what it is worth.

Hamlyn decides to forestall them; and thereby hangs a tale–a tale of adventure and romance so vivid and appealing that it is to be the next serial in the “Argus.”

Dartmoor Legacy is the title, and the author is T.C. Bridges, who in addition to being one of the ablest writers of novels of adventure, has an intimate knowledge of the two vastly different spheres in which this story is cast–namely Devonshire, and the Caribbean Sea.

The first thrilling instalment of this eventful story is to be published on Friday. Be sure to read the opening chapters; then nothing will prevent you from reading the rest. It is that kind of story.

–The Singleton Argus, 8 February 1939.

CHAPTER 1. A SHOT ON THE MOOR

BOB HAMLYN was awakened by a scratching on his bed-clothes. He sat up to find Judy, his terrier, standing on her hind legs beside him. He got up at once. Judy was a wise old lady, and never disturbed him without reason. It was very dark in his small, low-roofed bedroom and he quickly lit a candle and thrust his, feet into a pair of slippers. Judy was at the door and the moment he opened it, ran down the narrow stairs. It might be, he thought, that she merely wanted to go for a run, but, when he opened the front door she walked out, whined significantly and waited for him. He stopped only long enough to get a stick and a torch, then followed her.

“Someone after the chickens, eh, old girl?” he asked, but instead of going, towards the chicken house, Judy led the way to the garden gate and, when he opened it, down the rough cart road which led to the river bridge in the valley.

The night was cloudy and threatened rain, but, there was a moon behind the clouds so it, was not quite dark. There was no wind, it was quite, warm, and the only sound Bob could hear was the soft murmur of the Strane among its boulders.

He was puzzled. There was nothing whatever in the little farm house, where he lived alone, which could attract thieves. All he could think of was that fish poachers might be at work in his stretch of the river. Judy, he realised, was following a trail, so it was evident that someone had been near the house. Yet the last thing that poachers would do would be to risk waking him. His few neighbours on Dartmoor, who did a bit of poaching, knew that he kept the cleverest dog on the moor.

Suddenly Judy swerved off the road and, still keeping her nose close to the ground, began to work across the new-take, the rough pasture, to the left. At the far side she went nimbly over the dry-stone wall and led Bob through the rough heather beyond.

Bob was more puzzled than ever. There was nothing in this direction except the old Bittifer tin mine which lay just inside his eastern boundary. Yet this seemed to be the point for which Judy was making. The mine had ceased working 80 years ago, the timbering in its galleries had long rotted and Bob himself had never risked going inside it.

“Judy!” he called in a low voice. Judy stopped obediently but did, not come back. She was waiting for her master to come to her. With her head cocked and one paw raised, she said plainly that she was still on he job. Bob stood quite, still.

Dimly, in front of him, he could see the great mound of red earth and rock, spoil from the mine. In all these years nothing had grown over it. He could also just perceive the almost roofless ruin of the old mine-house.

The stillness was broken by a faint click. Bob knew what that was. A small stone had rolled down the spoil heap. So someone, was there. He shrugged. A tamp taking shelter in the min house. Poor devil, he wasn’t worth bothering about. Still, Bob felt he would like to be sure.

“Hulloa!” he called.

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