William Le Queux - The Great White Queen.pdf - William Le Queux - widez2

The Great White Queen

Le Queux, William

Published: 1897

Type(s): Novels, Science Fiction, Fantasy

Source: http://www.gutenberg.org

About Le Queux:

William Tufnell Le Queux (July 2, 1864 London - October 13, 1927

Knocke, Belgium) was an Anglo-French journalist and writer. He was

also a diplomat (honorary consul for San Marino), a traveller (in Europe,

the Balkans and North Africa), a flying buff who officiated at the first

British air meeting at Doncaster in 1909, and a wireless pioneer who

broadcast music from his own station long before radio was generally

available; his claims regarding his own abilities and exploits, however,

were usually exaggerated.

Also available on Feedbooks for Le Queux:

• The Czar's Spy (1905)

• The Seven Secrets (1903)

• The Stretton Street Affair (1922)

• Hushed Up! (1911)

Life+70 .

Note: This book is brought to you by Feedbooks.

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Chapter 1

A ROMANCE!

It is a curious story, full of exciting adventures, extraordinary discover-

ies, and mysteries amazing.

Strange, too, that I, Richard Scarsmere, who, when at school hated geo-

graphy as bitterly as I did algebraic problems, should even now, while

just out of my teens, be thus enabled to write down this record of a peril-

ous journey through a land known only by name to geographers, a vast

region wherein no stranger had ever before set foot.

The face of the earth is well explored now-a-days, yet it has remained

for me to discover and traverse one of the very few unknown countries,

and to give the bald-headed old fogies of the Royal Geographical Society

a lesson in the science that I once abominated.

I have witnessed with my own eyes the mysteries of Mo. I have seen

the Great White Queen!

Three years ago I had as little expectation of emulating the intrepidity

of Stanley as I had of usurping the throne of England. An orphan, both of

whose parents had been drowned in a yachting accident in the Solent

and whose elder brother succeeded to the estate, I was left in the care of

a maternal uncle, a regular martinet, who sent me for several long and

dreary years to Dr. Tregear's well-known Grammar-school at East-

bourne, and had given me to understand that I should eventually enter

his office in London. Briefly, I was, when old enough, to follow the pro-

saic and ill-paid avocation of clerk. But for a combination of circum-

stances, I should have, by this time, budded into one of those silk-hatted,

patent-booted, milk-and-bun lunchers who sit on their high perches and

drive a pen from ten till four at a salary of sixteen shillings weekly. Such

was the calling my relative thought good enough for me, although his

own sons were being trained for professional careers. In his own estima-

tion all his ideas were noble and his generosity unbounded; but not in

mine.

But this is not a school story, although its preparatory scenes take

place at school. Some preparatory scenes must take place at school; but

the drama generally terminates on the broader stage of the world. Who

cares for a rehearsal, save those who have taken part in it? I vow, if I had

never been at Tregear's I would skip the very mention of his name. As it

is, however, I often sigh to see the shadow of the elms clustering around

the playground, to watch the moonbeans illumine the ivied wall oppos-

ite the dormitory window. I often dream that I am back again, a Cæsar-

hating pupil.

Dr. Tregear, commonly called "Old Trigger," lived at Upperton, a sub-

urb of Eastbourne, and had accommodation for seventy boys, but during

the whole time I remained there we never had more than fifty. His ad-

vertisements in local and London papers offering "Commercial training

for thirty guineas including laundress and books. Bracing air, gravel soil,

diet best and unlimited. Reduction for brothers," were glowing enough,

but they never whipped up business sufficiently to attract the required

number of boarders. Nevertheless, I must admit that old Trigger, with all

his faults and severity, was really good-hearted. He was a little sniffing,

rasping man, with small, spare, feeble, bent figure; mean irregular fea-

tures badly arranged round a formidable bent, broken red nose; thin

straggling grey hair and long grey mutton-chop whiskers; constantly

blinking little eyes and very assertive, energetic manners. He had a con-

stant air of objecting to everything and everybody on principle. Knowing

that I was an orphan he sometimes took me aside and gave me sound

fatherly advice which I have since remembered, and am now beginning

to appreciate. His wife, too, was a kindly motherly woman who, because

being practically homeless I was often compelled to spend my holidays

at school, seemed better disposed towards me than to the majority of the

other fellows.

Yes, I got on famously at Trigger's. Known by the abbreviated appella-

tion of "Scars," I enjoyed a popularity that was gratifying, and, bar one or

two sneaks, there was not one who would not do me a good turn when I

wanted it. The sneaks were outsiders, and although we did not reckon

them when we spoke of "the school," it must not be imagined that we

forgot to bring them into our calculations in each conspiracy of devil-

ment, nor to fasten upon them the consequences of our practical jokes.

My best friend was a mystery. His name was Omar Sanom, a thin

spare chap with black piercing eyes set rather closely together, short

crisp hair and a complexion of a slightly yellowish hue. I had been at

Trigger's about twelve months and was thirteen when he arrived. I well

remember that day. Accompanied by a tall, dark-faced man of decided

negroid type who appeared to be ill at ease in European clothes, he was

shown into the Doctor's study, where a long consultation took place.

Meanwhile among the fellows much speculation was rife as to who the

stranger was, the popular opinion being that Trigger should not open his

place to "savages," and that if he came we would at once conspire to

make his life unbearable and send him to Coventry.

An hour passed and listeners at the keyhole of the Doctor's door could

only hear mumbling, as if the negotiations were being carried on in the

strictest secrecy. Presently, however, the black man wished Trigger

good-day, and much to everyone's disgust and annoyance the yellow-

faced stranger was brought in and introduced to us as Omar Sanom, the

new boy.

The mystery surrounding him was inscrutable. About my own age, he

spoke very little English and would, in conversation, often drop uncon-

sciously into his own language, a strange one which none of the masters

understood or even knew its name. It seemed to me composed mainly of

p's and l's. To all our inquiries as to the place of his birth or nationality

he remained dumb. Whence he had come we knew not; we were only

anxious to get rid of him.

I do not think Trigger knew very much about him. That he paid very

handsomely for his education I do not doubt, for he was allowed priv-

ileges accorded to no one else, one of which was that on Sundays when

we were marched to church he was allowed to go for a walk instead, and

during prayers he always stood aside and looked on with superior air, as

if pitying our simplicity. His religion was not ours.

For quite a month it was a subject of much discussion as to which of

the five continents Omar came from, until one day, while giving a geo-

graphy lesson the master, who had taken the West Coast of Africa as his

subject, asked:

"Where does the Volta River empty itself?"

There was a dead silence that confessed ignorance. We had heard of

the Russian Volga, but never of the Volta. Suddenly Omar, who stood

next me, exclaimed in his broken English:

"The Volta empties itself into the Gulf of Guinea. I've been there."

"Quite correct," nodded the master approvingly, while Baynes, the fel-

low on my left, whispered:—

"Yellow-Face has been there! He's a Guinea Pig—see?"

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