Biggles - the Boy Read online

  CONTENTS

  A WORD IN ADVANCE

  A TEST OF NERVE

  A CHAPTER OF ADVENTURES

  MORE TROUBLE

  DEATH IN THE WATER

  THE BIG BAD BEAR

  THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

  A SORT OF EDUCATION

  LIVING DANGEROUSLY

  THE THUGS

  THE BLACK INTRUDER

  A PROFESSOR LEARNS A LESSON

  THE FOOLISH TIGER

  THE LAST ADVENTURE

  IN CONCLUSION

  A WORD IN ADVANCE

  MOST healthy boys have an inborn appetite for adventure. If it does not come to them they will go out to look for it. It is the urge which from the beginning of history has sent men out to explore the unknown, to climb hostile mountains, to sail dangerous seas, in fact to do anything that involves a risk to life. Why do they do it? Is it prompted by curiosity? The hope of a thrill? A test of nerve, to prove something? If this impulsion is not satisfied it may stay with a man all his life. If all else fails he may find consolation from reading about the adventures of others.

  Had it not been for this impulse much of the world would still remain unexplored. Men have accepted the challenge of the seemingly impossible apparently for no other reason than to prove something could be done. It took them to the Poles although there was nothing there—not even a pole!

  The sort of adventure the average boy hopes to find must of course depend on where he lives. If there are rocks he will scale them. If there are caves he is likely to go pot-holing. If there are trees he will climb them. If there is a dangerous river near at hand it is there he will be found. There is seldom any practical purpose in doing any of these things. Danger is the magnet. If there is no danger there is no adventure. The greater the danger the greater the satisfaction of success.

  In so-called civilized countries a boy may have to go out of his way to find an exercise to challenge his nerves. He may walk on an icebound pond merely to see if it will carry his weight. He will climb a cliff for no better reason than to look for a bird’s nest or swim in a river said to have dangerous currents to see if it is true. Why he should so risk losing his life we don’t know. It is unlikely that he himself knows. But the fact remains, he does; he always has, and presumably always will. It is part of the human make-up.

  If a boy happens to live in a tropical climate with virgin forest or jungle around him he need seldom go far to find excitement. It is more likely to come to him, and that can happen anywhere, at any moment. In most of the remaining forests of Europe a boy may walk carefree in the assurance that he will emerge alive. Not so in the great jungle area where Biggles was born. There, death could lurk at any corner, pounce from behind the next bush, or, in the case of a poisonous snake, lie like a dead stick across the path for the unwary to step on.

  In India thousands of people die every year from accidental encounters with wild creatures, and that does not include snake-bite, which accounts for the highest number of fatalities. A single man-eating tiger has been known to kill two hundred people in one village. A deadly little snake called the krait is even found in urban districts. Wherefore it becomes instinctive for a boy to look where he is going and where he is putting his feet. He also learns to look up, for a thirty-foot python can drop from a tree on an unsuspecting prey. If he is wise he will have a good hard look at a stream, before he steps into it, for the protruding eyes of a lurking crocodile seeking its next meal.

  In short, the hazards to life from traffic in a city are in the wild replaced by dangers from nature in the raw. In either case, if a boy wishes to go on living he must walk carefully. The risks are unavoidable, so must be accepted. In India young James Bigglesworth learned to live with those which he knew were there.

  But during the British occupation of India it was an unseen menace which took the greatest toll of human life. Disease. It was fever that filled the churchyards with the white population, particularly the young. It nearly killed Biggles, and probably would have done had he not been sent to the cooler climate of England to give his blood a chance to thicken.

  It might be going too far to say that his successful career as a combat pilot was the result of his boyhood adventures; but that the life he led, with danger never far away, contributed, is not to be doubted. In order to survive he had to learn to use his head, think and act swiftly in a situation where a mistake, or a moment of carelessness, could prove fatal.

  He had certain advantages. In the first place he had expert tuition, sometimes being allowed to go out with an experienced shikari—that is, hunter— brown or white. While still a small boy, for his own safety he was taught, under strict discipline, the use and care of firearms. At the age of seven he could shoot fast and straight. He had his own light rifle and a sixteen-bore shotgun. It should be said he never went hunting for sport, or for the “pot”. The idea of killing something simply to put its stuffed body in a glass case made no appeal to him. He realized that everything had the right to live.

  On the occasions when he went out with his rifle it was strictly business. If the depredations of a savage marauder demanded its extermination for the good of the community he was prepared to do it, and without shedding “crocodile” tears over it, either. Later, when he found himself at war it was perhaps natural he should adhere to that policy.

  The regular readers of the Biggles books may sometimes have wondered what Biggles was like when he was a boy in India, before he ever saw England. The following pages may provide the answer, or at least help the reader to form an opinion.

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  A TEST OF NERVE

  THE year was 1912. The bungalow of the Assistant Commissioner of the United Provinces of India sweltered under the sultry heat of the approaching monsoon. Vegetation wilted. The fronds of the palms, like the flag on the pole, hung limp and lifeless.

  In a room furnished as an office, under the monotonous swinging of a punkah that kept the stagnant air moving, two men were talking. One, a tired-looking man of late middle age, immaculate in white, was the Assistant Commissioner himself: Bigglesworth sahib of the Indian Civil Service. The other was perhaps a little younger, carelessly dressed in jungle shirt, jodhpurs and high mosquito boots. Present also was a boy with serious, thoughtful eyes. He listened attentively but took no part in the conversation. The senior of the two men was his father; the other. Captain John Lovell of the Indian Army, a celebrated shikari, known throughout the Provinces as a destroyer of man-eating tigers and leopards.

  To the boy, James Bigglesworth, who until now knew him only by reputation, this mighty hunter was a hero to worship. It was to see him in person that he had asked permission to be present. This had been granted with the usual admonition that he refrained from asking questions. Hence his silence.

  His father was talking. “How are you feeling now, Jack? I hear you’ve been pretty poorly.”

  The soldier brushed off the question with a smile. “Me? I’m as right as rain—well, that is, almost. I’m as fit as a fiddle at the moment, anyway.”

  “What was the trouble? The usual fever?”

  “I’m afraid it was rather more than that. I’d had several nasty bouts and neglected to do anything about it. You know how it is. The result was a spot of heart trouble. Damned painful, but nothing that can’t be put right. The doctor has given me some pills. I have to carry them with me— confounded nuisance. If I feel another attack coming on all I have to do is slip one in my mouth. But you asked me to look in. Any particular reason?”

  “Well, I had; but it can wait till you’re really on your feet.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m all right. What was the trouble?”

  “Tiger.”

  “Where?”

  “Cungit vill
age. About five miles in the hills.”

  “I know it. How long has this been going on?”

  “Six weeks. Up to date the villain has taken seven women and two children. He’s got bold enough to snatch people from their houses. The village is in a panic. Real reign of terror. No one dare go out. Animals inside with their owners. They’re starving for want of fodder. Every door bolted and barricaded.”

  “Who’s the headman? Can’t he do something about it?”

  “Apparently he’s lost his nerve with the rest although in the ordinary way he doesn’t lack courage. Nice old boy named Hamid Lal. The usual story has got around that this is no normal man-eater but one that carries an evil demon on its back to warn it of danger. So it’s no use trying to kill it. Once this superstitious nonsense starts it becomes a disease that can’t be cured. Already they say that for size and ferocity there has never been anything like this brute. It’s said to be as big as a buffalo.”

  “Hamid Lal? Wasn’t he the man who recently got a medal for something?” queried Captain Lovell.

  “That’s right. He was walking down a jungle path with Barnes of the Forestry Service when a tiger sprang out, got Barnes by the shoulder and dragged him down. The rifle was knocked out of his hands. Hamid Lal ran in and picked it up. Naturally, the safety catch was on. He didn’t know how to work it, whereupon he used the rifle as a club and beat the tiger across the skull with such good effect that it dropped Barnes and made off.”

  “Great show. So the government gave him a medal.”

  “And a pension for life.”

  The boy spoke. “Bravo. But if he wasn’t afraid of a tiger then why should he be so scared of this one?”

  “This is a different matter altogether,” answered his father. “This scourge is no ordinary tiger. A demon on its back makes it invulnerable— so they believe. You’ll learn that once these people get the idea that a beast is possessed with supernatural powers, in this case the spirit of a dead murderer, their nerve melts like ice in the sun. That’s what centuries of superstition have done to them. This fear is infectious, and I’m afraid Hamid Lal, brave man though he is, has succumbed with the rest.”

  “Have you done anything about it?” inquired Lovell.

  “I sent word to Hamid Lal to build a machan near the village thinking you might like to sit up over a bait and catch this pest when he makes another raid; but since you’re on the sick list I wouldn’t—”

  “Forget it,” broke in the soldier. “I’m not so sick that I can’t handle this. Leave it to me. I’ll go right along and get everything ready for tonight.”

  The boy spoke again, looking startled by his temerity. “May I come with you, sir?”

  His father answered, curtly. “Certainly not. You’re too young for this sort of thing. Besides, you’d be in the way.”

  Captain Lovell smiled. “How old are you, James?”

  “Twelve, sir.”

  “That’s all right,” the Captain told the older man. “If he’s ever going to be a shikari the sooner he picks up a few tips the better. He’ll be all right with me. There’s nothing dangerous in sitting up in a machan.1

  The Commissioner looked doubtful.

  “Please let me go, father,” urged the boy. “I promise to do everything I’m told.”

  “I’ll see he comes to no harm,” Captain Lovell said confidently.

  “Very well,” agreed the older man, reluctantly. “Keep well wrapped up or we shall have you down again with another dose of fever.” Turning to the hunter he explained: “He can’t stay in this climate much longer. I’m arranging for him to go to school in England.”

  “All the more reason why he should see how we deal with wicked tigers before he goes,” declared Captain Lovell.

  “Shall I bring my rifle?” asked James eagerly.

  “No. You won’t need it. Mine will be enough.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “All right. If that’s settled we’d better get started to reach the village before dark. It’s a fair way. Sure you’ll be able to manage it?”

  “Easily. No trouble about that, sir.”

  “Good. Then let’s be on our way.”

  Once out of the township and the cultivated area around it the track to the stricken village wound up steadily rising ground through jungle and forest. To walk through such country was no new experience for James. He loved the untamed wilds, and from frequent hikes with a retired Gond shikari on the household staff he knew a good deal about it and was able to identify most things by their native names. There was no danger, of course, ruling out anything as unusual as an unprovoked attack by a large animal or venomous snake. Captain Lovell walked in front, rifle under arm and haversack and water-bottle slung over his shoulders. There was little talking.

  Bathed in perspiration, for the atmosphere under the trees was hot and humid, they reached their destination about four o’clock without seeing a soul. The village, a single street of one- or two-roomed clay and wattled huts, lay silent and apparently deserted; every door and window shut.

  “They might have come out to meet us, sir,” James said.

  “Not with a man-eater on the prowl and no better weapon than an ancient bundook and perhaps a couple of cartridges. In the ordinary way these people don’t lack for courage, but not when a beast has a devil on its back to protect it. As your father said, superstitions about tigers are born in them. And you needn’t keep saying sir. Just call me Skipper.” Captain Lovell shouted for the headman.

  A door opened and after an apprehensive look around an old man came out. His name, he said, was Hamid Lal.

  “When did you last see the tiger?” asked Captain Lovell.

  The man said it had seized a woman the previous evening. Her goat had got out. She had gone after it. The goat had returned; but not the woman. They had heard her screams.

  “Did you build the machan?”

  Yes. All the men making a great noise had done it that morning. He would show them. Hamid Lal took them along a path perhaps a hundred yards to a clearing in the jungle. In it stood a single tree. In its branches about twelve feet up had been built a simple platform. To reach this some sticks had been lashed at right angles to the trunk to form a ladder. A little to one side of the tree a stake had been driven into the ground as a tethering post. On the fringe of the jungle a nasty mess of blood and rags showed where the tiger’s last victim had been killed and devoured.

  “Good,” said Captain Lovell. “We shall need a goat.”

  Hamid Lal said they could have the one that had been the cause of the wretched woman’s death.

  They returned to the village, and as it was rather early to start operations they stayed with the headman in his house, drinking tea, until the short twilight was beginning to dim the scene outside. Hamid Lal talked in whispers about the dreaded beast, but all they learned from him was that there was nothing regular about its habits. Sometimes it came early, sometimes late. It was bold enough to come into the village, smelling and scratching on the doors. It knew nothing could harm it.

  “We’ll see about that,” Captain Lovell said grimly. “Come on, James, it’s time we were getting into position.” He picked up the rifle and the water-bottle. “We shan’t need the haversack; it can remain here.”

  Hamid Lal fetched the goat, held by a length of grass rope round its neck, and they set off for the machan. There was not a villager in sight. Every door was shut. The headman excused himself from going with them. They heard his door slam and the big wooden bolt thrust home; and James realized what it meant for a village to be under the spell of a striped monster which the people believed nothing could destroy.

  With the goat tethered to the post they climbed up on to the machan and made themselves as comfortable as the limited space would allow. Captain Lovell sat cross-legged with the rifle on his knees. He took a small electric torch from his pocket and put it handy. “No more talking,” he said. “If the old devil hears voices he may suspect a trap. They get cra
fty when they take to murder.”

  The darkness closed in. The moon, a misty halo, appeared above the treetops. The edge of a black cloud crept towards it.

  “If that confounded cloud starts to spill some rain it’ll spoil us,” muttered Captain Lovell. “We shan’t be able to see or hear a thing. On a still night one can hear a tiger coming as his tail drags through dead leaves.”

  Nothing more was said. The hush of night settled over the forest. Slowly the cloud crawled across the face of the moon and utter darkness fell from the sky like a blanket, James stared down into the black vault below straining his eyes to pick out a definite object. He could just make out the vague outline of the goat. It was not grazing, but stood stock still staring at the jungle. From time to time it uttered a nervous little bleat. Did it know its danger? James wondered, feeling sorry for the poor, lonely little beast. He was sorry this was necessary.

  Time passed. Without any distraction it seemed to be standing still. The cloud still hung like a black curtain over the moon. At intervals the goat whimpered its pathetic little cry. Fear was in the air. James could feel it in the beating of his heart. He felt safe in the machan but the knowledge that somewhere in the pool of darkness below the killer might be stalking its prey caused his nerves to tingle and his lips to dry.

  Then came the rain. Not a deluge. Not even a storm. Just big scattered drops that pattered on the broad-leafed evergreen foliage making a sound like approaching footsteps. James understood what the Skipper had said about rain spoiling the plan. He looked at him expecting him to say something: but he did not speak. He did not move. He had slumped into a most uncomfortable position with his head between his knees. The rifle had fallen across his feet. James peered at him. Could he have fallen asleep? He seemed to be in some danger of falling off the machan. “Are you all right, Skipper?” he whispered.

  No answer.

  James touched him gently on the arm, suddenly assailed by a feeling that something was wrong. “What’s the matter, Skipper?”