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The White King of Africa - Graydon

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

THE END

William Murray Graydon

The White King of Africa

* * *

Chapter I

A burst of martial music far down in the street roused Arthur and Roden Fanshawe from a state of delicious drowsiness. They opened their eyes and glanced at the clock. Then, in hot haste, they flung off the bedclothes, and sprang out upon the floor.

"Nine o'clock;" exclaimed Roden. "Won't we have a scramble to get downtown? It means no breakfast, I'm afraid."

"It looks that way," admitted Arthur, in a rueful tone. The next instant he clapped his brother on the back, and laughed loudly.

"Don't you know that this is Decoration Day?" he added. "No work for us, old fellow."

"By Jove! so it is," replied Roden, half-angrily. "What a pair of stupids we are! The idea of forgetting a holiday!"

"And after talking so much about it last night," Arthur went on. "We hadn't quite decided what to do, though. Shall we' go down to Staten Island to see Jack Dare, or put in a few hours fishing on the Shrewsbury?"

"We'll decide that at breakfast," promptly answered Roden. "Stir yourself now,"

While our young heroes are dressing, a few words will serve to properly introduce them to the reader. Roden Fanshawe was nineteen years old, and Arthur was a year younger. They were tall, handsome lads, with ruddy complexions and dark eyes and hair.

For three years they had occupied these two small rooms on the top floor back of the Belgrade Flats, which palatial building stood near Broadway and Thirty-third Street.

Prior to that time their lives had been very much the same as that of the average son of prosperous New York parents. They had traveled extensively, and were well-educated and found [sic] of sport.

Traces of the past were visible in the handsome fittings and furniture of the apartments. At the present time Roden was bookkeeper for a downtown china house, and Arthur was clerk in a broker's office in Wall Street. With loss of wealth most of their youthful friends had dropped away from them.

With one exception they had no acquaintances in the building. They usually breakfasted in their own rooms, and lunched together downtown. After the day's work they dined at a restaurant around the corner from the Belgrade Flats.

Little did the brothers dream that this 30th day of May, 1893, was destined to be a memorable and red letter one —- a day to which they would always look back with thrilling emotions.

After a careful toilet they entered the front room, which overlooked an endless vista of the roofs and spires of upper New York. It contained oak and leather furniture, costly rugs, shelves of books, numerous photographs and articles of bric-a-brac, and a choice collection of guns, fishing rods, fencing foils, and other sporting treasures.

Roden lighted a gas stove, and soon had coffee and an omelet in course of preparation. Meanwhile Arthur covered a small square table with a white cloth, and set out china and silverware.

From a tiny ice-box he took a pat of butter and a can of potted cream.

"I'm nearly ready," said Roden. "The omelet needs one more turn."

"I'll do the lightning act, this time, old fellow," replied Arthur, as he pulled on his hat and sped through the hall to the elevator.

In five minutes he was back with a three-foot loaf of French bread under his arm.

"Guess what I've got," be exclaimed, as he sat down at the table opposite his brother.

"I'm too hungry to guess," said Roden, beginning to slice the bread. "Is it a letter?"

"Right, first time," and Arthur drew an envelope from his pocket. "Addressed to both of us at the Belgrade Flats," he went on. "Business card in the left-hand upper corner, as follows: 'Blackstone & Bacon, Attorneys at Law, Lincoln, Illinois.' What the deuce can they want?"

"Never heard of them," said Roden perplexedly. "By Jove! I wonder if Lincoln can be Uncle Martin's nearest town?"

"We'll soon find out," replied Arthur. But just as he was about to tear the envelope a loud rap was heard on the door.

"Come in," called Roden, and at once there entered an individual who deserves more than a passing mention. He was a tall, soldierly-looking man of about forty, with a bronzed face and a drooping yellow mustache. He was neatly dressed and had an unmistakable air of good birth and breeding.

Godfrey Congdon was an Englishman, and occupied a room on the same floor. The boys had known him for more than a year, and liked him very much, in spite of the mystery attached to his past life. He lived in good style on a monthly remittance from home, and that was the utmost he had ever revealed.

"Just in time for breakfast," said Roden. "Pull up a chair, Godfrey. Our banquet won't give you dyspepsia. "

"Thanks," replied the visitor, "but I've had my chop. If you don't object, I'll smoke, though."

Hearty assent being given, Godfrey filled a small bull-dog pipe and lit it. For nearly a minute he glanced keenly at the boys as he puffed out little wreaths of smoke, and crumpled a folded newspaper in one hand.

"I have something here that may concern you fellows," he said finally.

The boys dropped their knives and forks and turned toward him in surprise.

"Something that concerns us?" exclaimed Arthur.

"Possibly," answered Godfrey. "Perhaps I should have said nothing about it. However, it's too late now. Before I go any further I'd like to hear that little bit of family history you told me when we first met. I've partly forgotten it. If this request seems imperti nent, remember that I've good reasons for asking."

"Oh, that's all right," said Roden. "Only I can't imagine what you are driving at."

"I believe your father's name was Lucius Fanshawe," replied Godfrey evasively, "and he was an astronomer and explorer?"

The boys glanced sadly toward a photograph on the mantel, picturing a handsome bearded man in the prime of life.

"Our father was a well-known scientist," said Arthur. "He was an authority on botany, geology, astronomy, and all that sort of thing. Of course we remember him but dimly. After our mother died in 1876 he traveled in Mexico. In 1879 he went to Africa, leaving us and his property in charge of his best friend, a banker named Macpherson. He entered near Zanzibar with none but native attendants, and two years later he was killed in the far interior by hostile savages."

Arthur paused, overcome by emotion.

"Mr. Macpherson gave us a kind home," said Roden, taking up the thread of the story. "We attended the best schools in New York, and during the summer we always traveled. We have roughed it in Wyoming and the Adirondacks. In 1890, just when we were ready for college, Mr. Macpherson failed, and committed suicide. All our property was swept away with his, and we were thrown on the world. An uncle on my mother's side, named Martin Trant, very kindly came in from the West when he heard of our misfortune ——"

"He wanted to take us out to his farm in Illinois," interrupted Arthur, smiling at the recollection. "Our refusal angered him, and we haven't heard a word from him since he went home. That was two years ago."

"You see, we couldn't bear to leave New York," explained Roden. "At first we had a rough time of it, but finally some friends of our father got us our present positions, and now we are getting along nicely."

Godfrey took a long pull at his pipe, and slowly unfolded the newspaper.

"You never doubted your father's death?" he asked abruptly.

"Never," exclaimed both lads, starting to their feet.

"How could we?" said Roden. "Three negroes of the expedition came back to the coast with the news of the massacre. The authorities at Zanzibar were satisfied that it was true."

"What does this mean?" cried Arthur, taking a step forward. "You —- you don't mean to say——"

"Keep cool," interrupted Godfrey. "Let me read you a marked paragraph from a London Times that came to me this morning. Here it is. Now listen:

"CAIRO, EGYPT, May 18, 1893."Two days ago a fishing-boat picked up a sealed bottle in the Mediterranean, off the mouth of the Nile. When opened it proved to contain the following authentic message, scrawled on a piece of paper from the well known explorer, Captain Benstone, who entered Africa from the west coast two years ago, and from whom nothing has been heard since:

" 'Written at the junction of the White Nile and Sabat Rivers, on the night of the 10th of March, 1892.

" 'Myself and a score of trusty negroes are besieged by Arabs. My two white companions died of fever months ago. We cannot hold out longer than daylight. As I write the attack recommences. I trust this message, in a stout bottle, to the river, hoping it may some day be found. For the benefit of whom it may concern, I add that a white king is reported to rule over a tribe of cannibals three hundred miles to the southwest of this point. Natives who have seen him described to me his person, and said that he has power to make the sun hide its light. Can this mysterious man be the explorer Fanshawe, whose death was reported in 1881?

" 'Farewell forever to friends and England.

" 'HUGH BENSTONE.' "

As Godfrey stopped reading, the brothers clutched eagerly at the paper. They held it between them with trembling hands while they went over every word of the paragraph. "Thank heaven!" cried Roden. "Our father is alive."

Tears of joy ran down his cheeks.

"Yes, it is surely he," added Arthur. "He must have predicted an eclipse of the sun to the negroes. That is probably why they made him king, It is not the first time astronomy has saved lives in Africa."

"I am inclined to agree with you," declared Godfrey.

"By the way, Benstone was an old friend of mine, and that's why the paper was sent me. His location of the place is pretty nearly identical with the neighborhood in which the negroes reported your father to have been slain. I know something of Africa. In fact, I've been there."

"You?" exclaimed Roden. "You have been in Africa? And do you think our father could be rescued? Would you go with us to find him?"

"There is hope of finding and saving him, of course," replied Godfrey, "and nothing would please me better than to go with you. But you forget the enormous cost of such an expedition. I have nothing but my monthly remittance of thirty pounds."

"And we are no better off," muttered Arthur, in a tone of despair. "True, if we could find friends to advance the money—"

"Who would do so on such slight evidence?" interrupted Godfrey. "Though you and I may be convinced that this mysterious man is Lucius Fanshawe, yet the world will demand stronger proof."

Roden paced the floor in great agitation.

"It is maddening," he cried, "to think that our father must die among African savages for the want of a few hundred dollars. Arthur, something must be done. Let us appeal to all the friends we have known in the past."

Arthur did not reply. An instant before he had picked up the forgotten letter, and mechanically torn it open. As he glanced over the inclosure [sic], his face flushed and his hands trembled.

"Listen!" he cried, and in husky tones he read as follows:

"MESSRS. RODEN AND ARTHUR FANSHAWE, New York.

"Gentlemen: Your uncle, Martin Trant, died a week ago, and left everything to you, with the exception of a small legacy to his housekeeper. As you know, he was unmarried. The estate consists of a farm, and other property, in the town of Lincoln. It would be well for one or both of you to come out here. Awaiting a reply, we have the honor to remain,

"Obediently yours,

BLACKSTONE &: BACON.

As Arthur dropped the letter the sun seemed to shine with tenfold brightness into the little room. The faces of the lads beamed with wonder and happiness.

* * *

Chapter II

"This is a manifestation of Providence," said Godfrey.

"It is indeed," replied Roden. "Thank heaven, our father will be saved. The way is clear now."

"To think that the news should come at such a time," added Arthur. "I am sorry, for Uncle Martin. We misjudged him, Roden. He had a kind heart under his rough exterior."

"We will be grateful to him as long as we live," replied Roden. "It cuts me to the heart to think of his dying out there all alone."

"Well, we will make good use of his legacy," said Arthur. "Had we better go out?"

"I will start for Lincoln to-night," declared Roden. "You must stay here, Arthur, and arrange to have our positions vacated at once."

"Count on me for that," said Arthur. "No more toiling in Wall Street."

He took an atlas from the book shelves, and opened it on the table at the map of Africa.

"Will you help us, Godfrey?" asked Roden. "With you for a companion and guide, I feel that failure is impossible. You shall lay out the money as you think best."

"I am, with you heart and soul, my boys," replied the Englishman heartily. "And it shan't be my fault if we don't find and rescue your father. I have never spoken about my past, and I don't care to do so now. Only I will tell you this. I have been a soldier in my time —- and no private, either —- and I have led an adventurous life. I have seen Khartoum and the Soudan. I have been in the Cameroon's country on the West African coast."