Bert Wilson, Wireless Operator

by J. W. Duffield

The boys were near enough to the dusky sentries now to hear their voices as they exchanged an occasional guttural remark. Bert touched the other two lightly, and they stopped. “I’ll take the fellow nearest the fire,” he breathed, “you two land on the other one. Club him with your revolvers, but whatever you do, don’t let him make a sound, or we’re gone for sure. Understand?”

“Sure,” they whispered, and all prepared to do their parts. At a whispered word from Bert, they dashed with lightning speed across the patch of moonlight, and before the astonished sentries could utter a cry were upon them like so many whirlwinds. Bert grasped the man he had selected by the throat, and dealt him a stunning blow on the head with the butt of his revolver. The blow would have crushed the skull of any white man, but it seemed hardly to stun the thickheaded savage. He wriggled and squirmed, and Bert felt his arm go back toward the sash round his waist, feeling for the wicked knife that these savages always wore.

Bert dared not let go of his opponent’s throat, as he knew that one cry would probably ring their death knell. He retained his grasp on his enemy’s windpipe, therefore, but dropped his revolver and grasped the fellow’s wrist. They wrestled and swayed, writhing this way and that, but fortunately the soft moss and turf under them deadened the sound of their struggles.

Bert had met his match that night, however, and, strain as he might, he felt his opponent’s hand creeping nearer and nearer the deadly knife. He realized that his strength could not long withstand the terrific strain put upon it, and he resolved to make one last effort to beat the savage at his own game. Releasing the fellow’s sinewy wrist, he made a lightning-like grasp for the hilt of the knife, and his fingers closed over it a fraction of a second ahead of those of the black man. Eluding the latter’s frantic grasp at his wrist, he plunged the keen and heavy knife into the shoulder of his opponent. Something thick and warm gushed over his hand, and he felt the muscles of his enemy go weak. Whether dead or unconscious only, he was for the time being harmless. Bert himself was so exhausted that for a few moments he lay stretched at full length on the earth, unable to move or think.

In a few moments his strong vitality asserted itself, however, and he gathered strength enough to go to the assistance of his comrades. It was not needed, though, for they had already choked the remaining guard into unconsciousness.

They waited a few moments breathlessly, to see if the noise, little as it had been, had aroused the rest of the camp. Apparently it had not, and they resolved to enter the hut without further loss of time.

This was accomplished with little difficulty, and they were soon standing in the interior of the shack, which was black as any cave. The boys had feared that there would be another guard in the place, who might give the alarm before he could be overpowered, but they now saw that this fear had been groundless.

A torch, stuck in a chink in the wall, smoked and flared, and by its uncertain light they could make out the form of a man bound securely to one of the corner posts. He gazed at them without saying a word, and seemed unable to believe the evidence of his senses.

“What—what—how—” he stammered, but Bert cut him short.

“Never mind talking now, old man,” he said. “It’s a long story, and we’d better not wait to talk now. We’re here, but it remains to be seen if we ever get away, or become candidates for a cannibal feast ourselves.”