CHAPTER IX

THE SAFARI

The queer English-style coaches, specially made to afford protection against the tropical sun; the odd little engine and many other things about the railroad through Africa, making it much different from the lines in the United States, caused the moving picture boys, Mr. Duncan and C. C. Piper no small amount of wonder at first. Everything seemed to be done contrary to what it was in their country.

“But you’ll generally find,” said Sergeant Hotchkiss, with pardonable pride in his nation’s progress, “that we get along fairly well over here.”

“That’s right,” agreed Blake. And when they came to think of a railroad actually being built through part of the former “Dark Continent,” where, until comparatively recently, no white man had ever set foot, they marveled.

“The British government,” went on the sergeant, “has made this a game preserve, almost up to the line of the railroad, in fact, with the idea of having travelers, who wish to, see nature at its wildest and as it really is. Nearly all game is protected, and licenses have to be procured to shoot a certain number of each species.”

“We don’t need any,” said Joe, “for all we’re going to do is to shoot ’em with our moving picture machines.”

“Unless they attack us,” said C. C., as he examined one of the several rifles he had purchased for himself and the boys. “That’s allowed; isn’t it, sergeant?”

“Oh, yes, to protect life. You may shoot anything, then.”

“A lion for mine!” cried Blake.

“I’d rather get an elephant and save the tusks,” spoke Joe, while C. C. said:

“Well, I’d like to bag a big rhino with horns about a yard long. The head would make a stunning ornament for my den, but I suppose if I went after one I’d be bagged by it and the horn would be stuck through me, so----”

“Hold on!” cried Mr. Duncan, with a smile. “I thought you had given up that sort of talk.”

“So I have!” declared C. C. “No more gloom for me; if I forget, remind me of it.”

“Let’s talk about filming the wild animals,” suggested Joe.

“Oh, you won’t have any lack of subjects,” declared Sergeant Hotchkiss. “Sometimes certain game becomes so numerous and so bold that it is taken off the protected list and classed as vermin, when anyone is allowed to shoot at will. Often here the buffaloes and hippos are so styled, for the latter often come in from the lakes and rivers and destroy the natives’ crops. And it has happened that the buffaloes get so bold that they attack on the least, and often without any, provocation.”

It did not take long for the train to reach a wild part of the country, passing through what would be a jungle, except that it was reclaimed to civilization by the railroad line. On either side of the rails, a short distance away, it was a real jungle, teeming with bird and animal life.

It was on the afternoon of the second day, and the boys had gotten their moving picture cameras in readiness. They had begun to despair of seeing any big game, in spite of what the sergeant had said, until they got farther into the jungle, for the most they had glimpsed were big birds and a hyena or two, the latter slinking off at the approach of the train before they could be filmed.

Suddenly the engine began to slacken speed, and finally came to a stop, nowhere near a station.

“What’s that?” asked Blake, as he finished threading a film into his camera.

“Maybe a rhino on the track,” suggested the sergeant. “We did hit one once, and damaged the engine so we couldn’t go on. But I don’t think that’s the case now. However, we’ll take a look.”

They piled out of the coach. It was hot, and moisture hung in the air. There was a deadly overpowering odor--a jungle smell. Great ferns made a thick foliage, and back amid the trees the queer notes of strange birds could be heard, while, now and then, a movement in the grass indicated the passage of some larger creature of the hidden fastness.

“Something’s up!” exclaimed Joe, as he saw the conductor, fireman and engineer of the train in consultation.

“Telegraph line is down,” said Sergeant Hotchkiss. “I can see where a pole has fallen. We can’t go on until it’s mended--can’t get the proper orders, you see.”

“What made it come down?” asked Joe.

“Don’t know--we’ll find out,” was the answer.

“Probably the pole was set in a swamp,” observed C. C., as they walked forward.

“Not at all!” exclaimed the conductor, who had made friends with the boys. “It’s an odd case, and if you lads had been here with your cameras you’d have had a fine chance for a picture. Nothing less than a giraffe knocked our telegraph fine out of business!”

“A giraffe!” cried Blake, wondering whether the conductor was “stringing” him.

“That’s it. You can see his hoof marks where he passed over the railroad. His head was so high that his neck probably hit the wire, and, as neither the wire nor the neck would break the pole had to. Yes, take my word for it, a giraffe broke down the line, and we’ll be held up until it can be fixed.”

“How long will that be?” asked Blake, an idea coming into his head.

“Oh, several hours, maybe. I’ll have to send a man back on foot to the next station to have a lineman come out. I don’t dare take the chance of proceeding without orders, for there is no telling when a special might come along and run into us.”

“Then, if we’ve got several hours,” cried Blake, “can’t we go off into the jungle and try for some pictures?”

“Great!” exclaimed Joe.

“I think you might,” said the conductor. “Don’t go too far, though. I’ll have the engineer whistle about an hour before we are to start, and you can then come back.”

The boys agreed to do this, and with Sergeant Hotchkiss to act as guide, and with C. C. to serve in the capacity of guard with his gun, Joe and Blake set out with their cameras, Mr. Duncan deciding to stay in the train.

“I do hope we stir up a lion!” exclaimed Blake, as they trudged along a trail made by the natives. Whither it led they did not know, but they had not gone far before Mr. Hotchkiss called a halt, and, pointing to a wide path leading across the narrow trail--a path seemingly forced by some large body--said:

“Buffaloes!”

“Are they around here?” asked Joe, thinking of what he had heard of these savage creatures with their immense horns.

“It’s hard to say,” replied the sergeant. “Best to be careful.”

They decided to follow the buffalo path, which was one literally smashed through the dense jungle growth, as they hoped to come to some open space where the creatures might be feeding, and so get a picture.

Luck was with them, for they had not gone more than a mile before the sergeant, who was in the lead, exclaimed:

“Here you are, boys!”

Joe and Blake pressed forward, and, coming suddenly into a sort of glade where the grass grew tall, they saw a score or more of the big cape buffaloes. Some were lying down, others standing up, and some feeding, while one big bull seemed to be on guard. The wind was blowing from the creatures to the boys--the man-odor would not carry to the animals.

“If we can get a little nearer we can film them,” whispered Joe.

“Go ahead,” counseled Blake, and they stole forward with one camera.

“Plucky lads,” observed the sergeant, admiringly.

“That’s what,” admitted C. C., as he looked to his gun. Perhaps he wished for a chance to use it.

Getting a good position the moving picture camera was set up, and soon, with Joe to steady it, Blake began turning the handle. With the first click all the buffaloes who were lying down got up and faced toward the boys. They saw them, but the wind being contrary did not give them the smell they needed, and they watched warily and curiously.

“Look out! If they start for you--run,” advised the sergeant.

The whole herd of buffaloes now began moving about restlessly, and this was just what the boys wanted, for moving pictures that do not move are not much of a success. Then the big bull, with a switch of his tail and an angry snort, started toward the lads.

“Look out!” cried the sergeant. “Run!”

Hardly had he spoken than the whole herd was in motion, but the lads, far from running, stood their ground.

“This is just what we want!” cried Joe. “It will make a dandy film!”

“Yes, we can take views for a few seconds more,” decided Blake. They did not know the dangerous quality of the buffalo, or they would not have risked this.

“Run! Run!” cried the sergeant. “Oh, why didn’t I bring a gun. They’ll be killed!”

“No they won’t!” declared C. C., as he knelt down to take aim at the foremost bull with a heavy elephant gun.

“Come on!” fairly screamed the sergeant, for he knew the terrible power of the buffalo’s horns.

“I guess we’ve got enough,” cried Blake. “Grab the tripod, Joe, and I’ll take the camera!”

The tripod, made for quick detachment, was slipped off by Joe, and together the two lads made back-tracks. The buffaloes were coming on.

“Crack!” snapped out C. C.’s gun, and it was seen that he had not boasted vainly of his prowess. The big bull seemed to crumple up, and turned a complete somersault.

Whether it was this queer action on his part, or whether the herd did not like the sound of the gun, was not made manifest. At any rate, they stopped, and, after waiting a moment, they wheeled around and retreated--that is, all but the big bull. He had been killed.

“A dandy shot!” exclaimed the sergeant, admiringly.

“I wish I had time to get his head,” said C. C., regretfully. As the other buffaloes disappeared, the boys walked up to look at the creature. Truly he was a large and fine specimen, and they took some pictures of it to finish out their film.

They went on for some distance farther, but saw nothing worth taking. Then the engine whistle blew, and they started back. On the return they passed a water hole, and from a screen of bushes some views were taken of small animals, including some gazelles, coming to drink.

“Well, that will do for a starter,” announced Joe, as they neared the train.

“Pretty good, too,” declared Blake. “But when we get away from the railroad and into the real jungle, we’ll do better.”

The telegraph line had been repaired, and orders to proceed having been received they started off once more. Nothing more of interest occurred that day, though on the next the boys managed to get a few views of a clumsy rhinoceros, as it waddled along the track for some distance. The engine was stopped to enable the boys to get the pictures they desired. The rhino seemed undecided about charging, but finally made up his mind not to.

On another occasion, when they had to stop for some slight repairs to the engine, the boys went off into the jungle on the chance of filming some lions, as tracks were seen near the rails. But they had no success.

In due time they reached Port Florence, on Victoria Nyanza, having made some very good films, but hoping to make much better ones.

“And now we’re really on what is to us the most important part of our journey,” said Mr. Duncan to the boys. “Once we are across the lake, we will be far from civilization, in the heart of the jungle, and there is where we expect to find Jessie.”

“And we will find her, too!” declared Joe, with conviction.

“What about our safari?” asked Blake. “Are we going to get our natives here?”

“I’ll see about that,” said Sergeant Hotchkiss.

They remained at Port Florence several days, and on the morning of the fourth they heard confused sounds outside of their stopping place.

“What’s that?” cried Joe, as he got up to look.

“Sounds like a minstrel chorus,” said Blake.

“It’s our native party!” cried his chum. “Look!”

As they peered from their window they saw a score of almost naked savages--black as coals--with only blankets on, their ears heavy with all sorts of ornaments, from empty tin cans to big bones, sticking in the lobes, their hair plastered with mud, carrying long spears, or sticks, and all going through a sort of dance, chanting the while in a strange tongue.

“For the love of cats, what is that?” cried C. C., as he joined the boys. “Have they come to eat us? Are they cannibals?”

“Indeed they are not,” said Mr. Hotchkiss, who entered the room at that moment. “Those are the porters I have engaged to take us and our baggage into the interior of the jungle. They will form our expedition. In Africa you can’t get along without them. They are all fine fellows, I assure you, and faithful. You can trust them with your lives.”

“Well, they don’t look so,” spoke C. C., as he pointed to one gigantic black, who looked particularly hideous with the skull of a hyena fastened on top of his head.

“He sure is the limit,” agreed Joe.

“And his name is Happy One,” said the sergeant. “Come down, and I’ll introduce you to them in form.”

“And are they the natives who are to lead me to my daughter?” asked Mr. Duncan.

“They are,” said the sergeant, gravely. “And if they can’t do it, no one can.”

“But they will!” cried C. C., in his new, jolly manner. “We’ll find her, all right!”