T.C. Bridges

The Mystery Message

A Story of South American Adventure

Warsaw 2019

Contents

CHAPTER I. STOLEN SIGNALS

CHAPTER II. NO ADMITTANCE!

CHAPTER III. PROFESSOR THOROLD EXPLAINS

CHAPTER IV. H.O.I.P

CHAPTER V. GADSDEN TRIES AGAIN

CHAPTER VI. THE LION'S DEN

CHAPTER VII. TAKING BIG RISKS

CHAPTER VIII. THE THIRD SHOT

CHAPTER IX. SAM TAKES A PRISONER

CHAPTER X. WHAT HAPPENED AT RIO

CHAPTER XI. THE LOCKED GATE

CHAPTER XII. THE WATCH-CAT

CHAPTER XIII. OFF AT LAST

CHAPTER XIV. THE FORD

CHAPTER XV. FACING TROUBLE

CHAPTER XVI. GAINING ON GADSDEN

CHAPTER XVII. A NASTY NIGHT

CHAPTER XVIII. THE LIVING DEATH

CHAPTER XIX. THE NIGHT-SEERS

CHAPTER XX. TWO GALLONS OF PETROL

CHAPTER XXI. THE SLEEPING SNAKE

CHAPTER XXII. A REARGUARD ACTION

CHAPTER XXIII. THE JEWELLED SUN

CHAPTER XXIV. WHEN THE STORM BROKE

CHAPTER XXV. THE BATTLE BEGINS

CHAPTER XXVI. PAYMENT IN FULL

CHAPTER I. STOLEN SIGNALS

THE early summer morning was warm and very still, and the only sound in the bare, shed-like room was the slow sucking of waves at the foot of the granite cliff on which it was built. On a table in the centre of the room stood a five- valve wireless set, the wires coming down through the slated roof. Beside the wires there dangled two thin cords, the lower ends of which were within reach of Jim Selwyn, the tall, slim, keen-faced boy who sat with the headphones over his ears.

The door of the workshop opened softly, and a second boy came in. He was a queer contrast to the first, for he was nearly as broad as he was tall, and, while Jim Selwyn had dark brown hair and very dark blue eyes, the hair on Sam Lusty’s square head was red as fire and his eyes were between green and grey. He was strong as a young bull, and a great deal more active than he looked.

“What are you getting, Jim?” he asked in a gruff voice.

Jim Selwyn looked round. “Not a thing, Sam,” he said ruefully. “None of these stupid fellows in the States will talk to me.”

Sam grunted. “I suppose you’re trying some of your funny games on ‘em,” he remarked.

“My dear Sam, I never try funny games,” Jim answered plaintively. “It’s true I’m using a rather extra short wave- length, but that ought to make it all the easier for them to get me. These Western chaps are all asleep.”

“If you can’t get West try East,” advised Sam.

“What’s the use of that?” retorted Jim. “The sun’s blazing all over Europe, and it isn’t likely that anyone there will be trying to talk. America is the only dark continent at this hour of the morning.”

There was a long wait, then at last Sam became impatient.

“Chuck it and come down to the beach for a swim,” he suggested. “It’s a proper nice morning.”

“In a minute. Just wait till I’ve given my aerial one more swing.” Taking hold of one of the cords, he began to pull it gently, and from above came a faint creaking as Jim’s frame aerial, an invention of his own, began to revolve slowly.

All of a sudden Jim let go of the cord, and Sam saw a startled expression cross his friend’s face. “What’s up?” he asked.

Jim’s arm shot out in a quick motion for silence, and for the next few moments the only sounds in the bare room were the sough of the sea on the cliff and a distant screaming of gulls. Then Jim looked round. “It’s an S.O.S. call,” he said sharply.

“Ship in trouble?” questioned Sam.

“No. Ships never use short wave-lengths.”

“Then where does it come from?”

“South America. It must be, for that’s where my aerial is turned. Wait! There it is again, plain as anything–three shorts, three longs, three shorts.”

Sam came nearer. “Can’t you get him, Jim–the chap that’s calling?”

“I’m jolly well going to try,” declared Jim. “Sit tight, Sam. This is either a hoax or something very queer.” As he spoke his fingers were busy on the buzzer in front of him, while Sam stood stolidly watching.

Suddenly Jim’s face lit up. “I’ve got him,” he said breathlessly. “Steady on! He’s telling me his wave-length. It’s twenty-seven metres.” His nimble fingers worked over the dials; then, when he had tuned in to the given length, he began to rattle out Morse. “It is from South America,” he said presently, “from Brazil. A chap called Alan Upton.”

“Brazil’s a whopping big place, ain’t it?” said Sam doubtfully, but Jim did not answer. He was listening and sending alternately, and Sam saw that he was frowning in puzzled fashion. It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he spoke again. “This is the rummiest go, Sam. Upton says he is speaking from a valley in Central Brazil, but he won’t tell me where it is.”

“Why not?”

“Says he dare not give it away because he doesn’t know who I am.”

“Can’t you tell him?”

“I have told him, but, of course, I’ve no proof to give him, and he’s scared stiff that the story may get into the wrong hands. And here’s the queerest thing of all. It’s Gadsden he’s afraid of.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Not Mr Stephen Gadsden as lives here at Polcapple?”

“That’s the man,” replied Jim. “See here, Sam, so far as I can make out, this fellow Upton’s an explorer, and he’s got into some valley place right out in unknown country, and can’t get out without help.”

“But he’s loony,” said Sam. “How’s anyone going to help him if they don’t know where he is?”

“The man he wants to help him is Professor Thorold.”

“Who’s he?”

“A big gun in the science line. Great on archaeology.”

Sam frowned. “I wish you’d use words a fellow can understand,” he grumbled.

“Old cities and old peoples,” explained Jim. “Thorold lives near Appledore–at a place called Ludford. He’s Upton’s uncle, and Upton wants me to go and see him and fetch him here.”

“What’s the good of that?” demanded Sam. “Those signals you send might just as well be sent by Gadsden as by Thorold.”

“No. Thorold’s got a password, and as soon as Upton gets this word he will know who is speaking, and tell where he is and all about it.”

Sam stared. “What are you going to do?” he demanded.

“I’m going straight off to Ludford to see Professor Thorold.”

“The fare’s about twelve bob return,” said Sam, “and all we’ve got is three and a tanner.”

“I’ve got my bike,” Jim answered. “I can do it in the day.” He broke off short. “What was that?” he cried, and, springing up, dashed to the door, flung it open, and ran out.

Sam, hurrying after Jim, saw him bolting round the far end of the building, and met him coming back the other way. “You’ve got the jumps proper,” said Sam.

“Don’t talk rot,” Jim answered breathlessly. “I saw a face looking in at the window.”

“Whose face?” said Sam.

Before Jim could answer a sharp voice cut in. “What’s the matter?” it said. “What makes you boys run about like that? I’m sure you eat enough without taking more exercise than you need to.” The speaker was a tall, gaunt, vinegar-faced woman who had just come out from the back door of the house.

“It’s all right, Aunt Sarah,” said Sam. “We were chasing a tramp chap, that’s all.”

“Some one after my chickens, I’ll be bound,” exclaimed the woman. “Did you catch him?”

“No, he was too slick,” replied Sam. “But we’ve scared him off. Is breakfast ready?”

“Yes, it’s ready,” was the answer, “and mind you wipe your feet, and don’t bring mud into my nice clean kitchen.”

Breakfast was porridge and skim milk with one slice of bread and butter for each. Poor fare for growing lads, but Sam was accustomed to it, and Jim did not complain. The house, it was true, belonged to him, but that was all he owned in the world, and he was glad enough to get board and lodging from Sam’s aunt, Mrs Trant, as rental for the old place and the bit of land around it. Jim’s father had been killed in the Great War, his mother had died two years before this story opens, and, so far as he knew, he had no relations anywhere.

“Them early potatoes needs earthing up,” remarked Mrs Trant as she ladled out the porridge.

“I’ll see to ‘em, aunt,” said Sam. “Jim’s got a job on.”

“What sort of a job?” snapped Mrs Trant.

“He’s got to go to Appledore,” Sam answered.

Mrs Trant glared at Jim. “Appledore,” she repeated, “and where’s the money coming from, I’d like to know?”

“I’m going on my bicycle,” said Jim quietly.

“And what for?” she demanded.

“On business,” replied Jim, who was getting tired of this questioning.

“Wasting more money on that there wireless, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs Trant sourly. “I wish Parson would teach you something sensible. I’d have thought you was getting too old to play with toys.”

“Toys!” said Sam angrily, but Jim stopped him. “It’s all right, Sam. Some day Mrs Trant will find out that toys may be made to pay.”

Mrs Trant snorted, but said no more; and as soon as breakfast was over the boys hurried out to the shed where Jim kept his bicycle. Jim opened the door, then stopped short with a gasp.

“What’s up?” asked Sam.

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