Preface

This adventure story of some 23,000 words is intended mainly for boys aged 8/9 upwards (although some girls could well enjoy it). It deals with the difficulties encountered by 13 year old Jack Banks when sent to a boarding school in England. His parents remain in S.W.Asia where his father is an agricultural adviser for the United Nations. Jack's initial reception is tough for a shy boy, but he survives this and makes new friends, especially Ginger and a comically valiant small boy known as Mickey.
Jack's troubles increase when he is asked to look after Themba, the extrovert son of a famous scientist, a black American Professor. This task takes him on a venture well outside the school walls. In the process Jack makes the biggest discovery of his life.
[Scene above is from Chapter 8]
This novel has also been published in Kindle digital format for downloading  to their Kindle reader. As a consequence the text is no longer available for free down-loading. But the Kindle version only costs 77p although you must have a Kindle reader, IPad or similar. A loose-leaf @hard' copy can still be bought from John G Acton direct - see main Pianist Storyteller Blog
To access the Kindle version click  JACK-BANKS-DISCOVERY





Sequel
A sequel to the above story is called "Jack Banks on Trial" - see separate blog http://pianist-storytellerjbt.blogspot.com

JACK BANKS' DISCOVERY

Jack Banks' Discovery - the complete novel by John Acton

Published by Pianist Storyteller Novels 2009
26 Holmwood Avenue, Shenfield, Brentwood Essex CM15 8QS
ISBN 978-0-9559080-3-3

John G Acton as the author asserts his right to copyright of the novel and the frontispiece in Jack Banks’ Discovery and the other novels and their illustrations in this series:-
Jack Banks on Trial, (also on Kindle)
The King’s Son (also on Kindle)
Martin Ashworth Fourteen (also on Kindle)
Martin Ashworth Fourteen Plus (also on Kindle)
Ben Bugden Thirteen (also on Kindle)
Full details can be found on the Internet by going to.the general Pianist-stortellr blog site.


Short Summary

This adventure story for boys (aged 8/9 upwards) deals with the trials of a thirteen year old, Jack Banks, sent to boarding school in England. His parents remain in S.W.Asia where his father is an agricultural adviser for the U.N. Jack’s initial reception is tough for a shy boy, but he survives this and makes new friends, especially Ginger and a comically valiant small boy known as Mickey.
Jack’s troubles really begin when he is asked to take care of Themba, the extrovert son of a famous scientist, a black American Professor. This task takes him on a venture well outside the school walls. In the process Jack makes the biggest discovery of his life.
[There is also a SEQUEL to the above story called “Jack Banks on Trial”. Jack endures a series of misfortunes which take him and his loyal mates hundreds of miles from English shores. More information can be found by logging on to :-
http://pianist-storytellerjbt.blogspot.com

CONTENTS

Ch. 1 School for Sorrow
Ch. 2 Evans to the Rescue
Ch. 3 Kariba sets the pace
Ch. 4 Ginger explains
Ch. 5 Fateful Excursion
Ch. 6 The deadly virus of Barnes and Turner
Ch. 7 The Search
Ch. 8 Jack to the Rescue
Ch. 9 Ginger and Mickey join in
Ch. 10 On the High Seas
Ch. 11 Check and check-mate

Dedication
This book is dedicated to Brentwood Crusaders, particularly the junior boys who first heard the story told in instalments, and to my grandson Timothy.
John Acton

26 Holmwood Avenue, Shenfield, Brentwood, Essex CM15 8QS
Email johngacton@gmail.com 

Sample Chapters :-


 CHAPTER  1 -  School for Sorrow?

“No! Please no! I want to stay with you,” I pleaded.
   “Listen carefully Jack,” said my Dad while Mum wiped a tearful eye. “I know you’d rather stop here, but …”
   Before he could say more I interrupted and said, “But couldn’t you let me do another correspondence course instead?  I’ll work hard.”
   “Please let Jack stay,” added my little sister Pauline unexpectedly - for we didn’t always get on well together.
   “Can’t I stop Mum?” I turned to her but she slowly shook her head sadly. Then I realised that was it. The decision had been made and I had better put up with it.
   Then Dad said, “Your Mum and I have discussed and prayed about it. There are no proper secondary schools here and correspondence courses don’t really fill the gap. Now you are thirteen it’s time for you to buckle down and complete your studies at a good school. So I have arranged for you to go to England - to my old school at Harlington.”
   “Very well, Dad,” I answered meekly. I knew they loved me and that the parting would be hard for them as well as for me.
   Dad was Agricultural Adviser for the United Nations where we lived in Bardara, South West Asia. He was often away on long trips into the surrounding rural country. Mum said his work was vital for the survival of countless thousands of poor people, who relied on his advice plus the skilful distribution of essential aid supplies from richer countries. 
   I shall never forget the day when Mum kissed me goodbye and Dad shook hands in manly fashion at the airport - really only a single air strip and only small two engined planes could use it. Then 7 years old Pauline suddenly held out her arms. I hugged her and promised to bring her back a special present when I returned next year. Mum was smiling bravely but had her handkerchief ready in one hand. My main suitcase had already been put aboard the plane. I was nervous and hurriedly felt in the inside pocket of my new jacket. I was checking once again that I had passport and money, and that the special button fastener sewn on by my Mum  was safely closed. 
   A final goodbye and I was hurried away with my hand luggage up into the plane to begin the great adventure. I had flown before but never alone. I was a little scared I think, but too excited to worry.
   After a change to a big plane at Karachi, I slept most of the way to Heathrow, dreaming of all the friends I would make at my new school. I had been rather lonely during my three years in Bardara, as there were language and cultural problems in making contacts with the local boys, although Mum and Dad did their best to encourage me in this. I suppose I am a shy sort really. “You are bound to make some special friends at Harlington School,” my Mum would say to cheer me up as the departure date drew nearer. Nevertheless I was nervous.   
   I was met at Heathrow by jolly Uncle Ted and Aunt Maud whom I dimly remembered. There were a couple of days of packed shopping for the Harlington black and grey uniform, gym kit, sports kit and so on, fortunately all available in one London store. Then I was treated to a quick trip to the Tower, the Zoo and Whitehall. It all went so quickly. I was seen off at Waterloo Station along with umpteen other boys all wearing identical black and grey and bound for Harlington on the South Coast.
   I considered joining a group of boys on the train about my own age but thought better of it: they all seemed to know one another. So I slunk into a compartment almost full of adults and contented myself with a book. Reading was a great hobby for me. I could easily escape into another world if I had a good book. Back home I had written short Teddy stories to amuse my sister which used to make her laugh, especially when I allowed him to be naughty and cheeky. This was before she grew up a bit and started fighting me for attention - or what ever it is that makes sisters difficult. One day I hoped to write longer stories and perhaps even make my living as a writer.
   On arrival I found the school looking every bit as impressive as my Dad had told me. There was a fine old country mansion, Harlington House, at the centre with new school buildings grouped around it. After a short tour the rest of my day was spent on enrolment, picking up text books, allocation of a desk, locker and bed.
   It was the start of the Summer term and I discovered, to my dismay, that I was the only new boy starting this term. I could hear the whispers over tea, but it was in the dormitory that evening that I sensed trouble might come.
   I had always had a room to myself. Now I was in a large room or dormitory with about twenty other boys, mostly my age. There were a couple of senior boys at one end called monitors who, I gathered,  were supposed to keep order. Boys were undressing and putting on pyjamas, so I supposed I had better do the same - but I was shy. I ran along to the adjoining wash-basins and toilet area along with many others to clean my teeth and have a quick wash. With a flash of inspiration I ran back for my pyjamas, bolted myself in a toilet compartment and quickly changed in private. Coming back I heard one or two sniggers.
   “Hey, you! Yes, you - newbug. Come here,” summoned one of the monitors. I dropped my stuff on the bed and went over to him.
   “What’s your name?”
   “Jack.”
   “Jacqueline what?” he demanded amid titters of merriment from the others.
   “Jack Banks,” I replied with growing apprehension.
   “All new bugs have to pass the entrance test. Are you ready?”
   I didn’t answer. Suddenly he pushed me backwards hard. Unknown to me another boy had crept up and kneeled down behind me, so that I did a complete somersault over his back. That was not too bad but, as I sprawled on the floor, there was a cheer and many other boys gathered round..
   “Blind man’s buff,” they cried. Someone fetched a scarf and tied it tightly round my eyes and head. Another tied my hands behind my back with a football lace so I couldn’t get the blindfold off. Then they began spinning me around along with semi-gentle slaps and pushes  while calling me silly names. I stubbed my bare toes on the legs of the beds but they didn’t let up. It was hurtful and humiliating. I was told I had to smile and ‘enjoy’ it if I were to pass the test. I just couldn’t. I hadn’t cried in years but felt dangerously near it when the 5 minutes warning for lights out was sounded. I was released and told to go to bed.  
   I rushed into bed and buried my head under the blankets. How could I ever survive? My Mum had taught me to pray at bed-time when I was little, but I had given this up years ago. It never meant much to me although I sensed that perhaps it did to Mum and Dad. I needed help now. Would God help me? Should I start, “O God  ….”, but that seemed so remote. All those ‘wonderful friends’ Mum had talked about were all spiteful bullies.
   Just as I was beginning to doze, I thought I heard one or two stifled whispers. Suddenly my bed was tipped violently to one side and I was once again sprawling on the floor. There was open merriment and the sound of hasty scampering back into bed of the culprits.
   I picked myself up wearily, almost sobbing with aches and humiliation. It was a dark night. I couldn’t see who had done it. Nor could I see to deal with the upset bedding. The mattress had come off and my clumsy efforts to put it back provoked further laughter and taunts such as, “Did Mummy’s darling fall out of bed?” Finally I climbed back into my rough bed and buried my head in the pillow and blankets.
   It took ages getting to sleep and when I did, it seemed barely five minutes or so before it was morning. I heard a furiously ringing bell and a mad dashing by of boys with towels flying, slapping of backs and other horse-play. My blankets were roughly stripped off my bed and a monitor yelled at me to get up and look lively. My head ached but I realised I had better do just that. Nobody seemed to take any notice of my newbug status or mention last night, so I hurriedly washed. Everybody was so busy dressing and getting ready that I changed quickly myself in the dorm. No one looked at me. Was I through the worst?
   I rushed downstairs with the rest of the crowd and so on to breakfast, morning prayers and the first period of the Summer term.
   I really enjoyed the lessons. I was not too far behind in schooling for Mum and occasionally Dad, when he was not away on one of his trips, had done their best to coach me with the help of a correspondence course. Dad was a Doctor of Agricultural Science and Mum had a teaching diploma. Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but I think I might be described as ‘bright’, definitely not exceptional but persevering. I began to answer up and to earn good marks.
   I thought that doing well in class might be a help in my relations with the other boys. But no! To some I was now a cry-baby newbug and a swot. I hated break-time. I didn’t seem able to make friends. Some of the boys seemed all right but they all had friends, who pulled them into team games mostly unknown to me. I felt miserable and lonely.
   There was one boy in my form, a bright faced gingery haired lad, who often caught my attention. He always seemed to be in the centre of activity in the playground, although he was not so hot in the classroom, about average I suppose. He was very popular and I always seemed to be hearing, “Come on Evans. Be on our side. Well done Evans. Good for you Ginger!” If he hadn’t been such a pleasant fellow, I suppose I should have hated his guts. As it was I envied his easy ability to get on so well with others. It seemed impossible that I should ever get to be like that, but I would sometimes dream about it. I would go to sleep imagining I was in the playground and having a rattling good time. In my dream I would hear, “Come on Banks. Oh, well played Banks. Good old Jack.” Then the scene would shift to the nightmare of the first night and I would sometimes wake up in a near panic.
   Although I had to put up with sniggers and rude comments, there had been no further roughing up in the dorm. However, I was cautious and as a defensive measure used to take a book out to read at break-times. One day towards the end of my first fortnight at the school, I was deeply immersed in an exciting adventure story of the ‘Wild West’. The book had a lurid cover which unfortunately must have given an idea to some of those around. I suddenly became aware of suppressed laughter and a lot of movement. I looked up and to my consternation found a band of boys dancing in a wide circle around me, whooping in Red Indian style. They closed in on me in menacing fashion and some mocked my dreams by shouting, “Death to the paleface! Down with Banks!”
   I wouldn’t have worried if this sort of game had been played when I was six or seven, but some of these boys were two or three years older than me. They suddenly charged and sent my book flying. As I went after it my arms were grabbed from behind and my face forced into the dirt.
   As I struggled I heard a boy say, “What shall we do now Jones?”
   “Hold him tight,” came the answer.
   I couldn’t see all that was happening, for by now two boys held my arms and another two held my legs tightly. I was dimly aware that the usual playground noises had become strangely hushed. The circle of watchers that I could see had enlarged to a great crowd. They were intently watching me and this bully Jones who seemed to be in control.

   “See this paleface?” said Jones to me and suddenly produced in front of my eyes a spear of nettles held in his handkerchief protected hand. I strained away but couldn’t move.  The next moment my right trouser leg was yanked hard up over my knee and I suddenly felt fire leaping up my bare leg. My muscles convulsed and I yelled.

             CHAPTER  3 - Kariba sets the pace

The next day I was summoned to appear before the Headmaster, Dr McTaggart. But for my Mum’s letter I would have been worried stiff. As it was I was just worried. I had guessed right. He was preparing me to look after Themba Kariba when he arrived.

   “Well Banks, I have had good reports from Mr Jenkins on your class work and I believe you are settling in happily in our school. Your father is a very distinguished old boy doing a valuable job in Bardara, as you know. He has written to ask that you should endeavour to look after Professor Kariba’s son Themba, when he arrives in a couple of days. Will you do this for us please?”

   “I’ll try,” I said timidly.

   The Head gave me a searching look and said, “I realise it might be a tall order for a new boy, but I think it’s essential that someone of Themba’s age does the job - and it’s your father’s wish.”

   “Yes, I had a letter from home yesterday which mentioned this,” I said.

   The Head added that Professor Kariba was so important in America, that our Foreign office had written commending the admission of his son to our school. He said that he would watch his progress with interest and would rely on me to let him know of any problems. 

   Then Dr McTaggart said, “I am told that there is little room in your dormitory for another boy. So I propose to move you to dormitory number three. I trust this does not displease you?” The Head’s severe face suddenly relaxed into the glimmer of a smile with this last question.

   I gasped. How much did the old fox know? Dorm three was surely where Ginger and Mickey slept, wasn’t it?

   “That will be fine,” I said smiling broadly.

   “I thought you wouldn’t mind,” he said and indicated the interview was over.

   I skipped out of the room and was running down the corridor when I bumped into the Deputy Head, Mr Grant. Fortunately he let me off with a warning. There was great rejoicing when I was able to tell Ginger and Mickey the good news.

   “Don’t forget though, that our dorm three monitors are J.F.Jones and his crony Mure,” said Ginger soberly.

   “No, but we ought to be able to manage them,” I said hopefully.

   Two days later I saw a huge American car flying a pennant with the stars and stripes parked outside the main entrance to Harlington House. Sure enough I was sent for once again by the Head to meet Themba Kariba.

   “Hiya Jack!” said Themba holding out his hand, dark brown on the back but curiously pink on the palm and inside of his fingers. He was smiling broadly to reveal a perfect set of white teeth. He seized my hand in a powerful grip which reinforced my impression that beneath the Harlington black and grey was a strong physique.

   Stifling a desire to massage my bruised right hand, I managed a sort of welcoming smile and asked if he had had a good journey. It was a little difficult understanding his pronounced American accent, but he seemed very friendly and a ‘decent guy’ to use one of his terms. Dr McTaggart let us talk for a short while and then sent me off to show Themba round the school.

   At that morning’s assembly the Head had already announced Themba’s imminent arrival, and warned everyone that he was to be given every help in settling in. There had been some muttering and subdued sniggers, but I felt fairly confident that Themba would escape the ‘newbug’ ragging that I had undergone.

   Themba presented a smart appearance. He had short black tightly curled hair and a shining dark brown face with a very ready smile. I felt quite proud to be showing him around and introducing him to Ginger and Mickey along with others in our Form. There were some rather curious glances given us, however, which I sensed were not altogether friendly. As well as Jones and Mure, Ginger and Mickey had warned me to beware of Barnes and Turner of the Sixth Science. Barnes was a hefty brute who managed to hold a place in the 1st Rugby XV despite his slack attitude to training, thus achieving a certain amount of prestige. Mickey alleged that Turner was a toady whose flattery brought out the worst in Barnes. He was so firm about this that I suspected Mickey had painful reason in the past for his accusation. I thought it best not to enquire further for the moment.

   That first night in dorm three was really something. Fortunately Themba and I had been given beds close to Ginger and Mickey, at the far end away from Jones and Mure. However, all eyes and ears seemed to be fascinated by Themba’s appearance, his shining teeth, eyes and voice with its American twang as he fired an almost non-stop stream of questions at me, Ginger and Mickey. I envied the easy assurance of his manner, so different from my shy halting approach.

   I noticed particularly that little Mickey Peet appeared to be bowled over by the American boy’s charm, the careful way Themba listened to him, sought his opinion and treated him as an equal despite the disparity in size. Mickey was fussing around Themba, trying to help him unpack and offering to do this and that for him. The bigger boy was good-naturedly accepting this attention and Mickey was almost squeaking with pleasure. Ginger caught my eye and we both grinned. What fun!

   Mickey wasn’t the only one impressed. As bed-time arrived, Themba stripped off his shirt to reveal, as my bruised right hand had led me suspect, a powerful bronzed-brown chest glistening with muscles. There were some whispered comments. Mickey just gaped with awe. More spectacle was to follow for Themba next produced some bright scarlet pyjamas with a gold embroidered monogram on the pocket. He calmly proceeded to put them on without appearing to notice the gawking eyes. If it had been me I would have died with embarrassment.

   “Jumping witch doctors! Where’s his magic wand and book of spells?” exclaimed the dorm wag.

   Apparently unaware of the interest he was creating, Themba unconsciously answered this comment by next producing a large book bound in red leather. He climbed into bed, opened his book at a certain place and began to read.

   A boy on the other side of Themba’s bed craned his head over to look. He came out with a startled stage whisper that carried all the way to the other end of the dorm, where I could see Jones and Mure watching glumly. “He’s reading the Bible!” he hissed.

   Up to this point I had been feeling rather proud of the splendid impression made by Themba Kariba. He was the son of a V.I.P. and I had been given the job of looking after him. That should surely raise my status above the cry-baby ‘newbug’ label of my early days, before Ginger and Mickey rescued me. Now I was not so sure. Reading the Bible in the dorm was definitely ‘not done’. Looking across at Ginger I could also see a worried frown on his face. Looking after Themba might be more of a liability than I had imagined.

   Shortly afterwards Themba closed his Bible without a glance at the watching dorm, got out of bed and knelt down as if in prayer. Almost immediately I heard Jones’ rasping voice saying contemptuously, “Just look at the cissy! I suppose he read Tom Brown’s Schooldays in America and wants to show off.”

   There was an uneasy silence for a moment or so and Themba appeared to show no reaction. I was petrified. Glancing hastily at Ginger I saw he was white-faced, but Mickey was red with indignation. Suddenly Mickey got up and a little whirlwind of skinny arms and legs encased in blue and white pyjamas hurtled down the dorm and into Jones squeaking in a high voice, “You leave him alone.”

   Jones was only momentarily knocked back. A boy of Mickey Peet’s size was just his mark. With the help of Mure he quickly had Mickey stretched face downwards across a bed and sat heavily upon him demanding an apology.

   But Themba was rising up from his knees and in one continuous and superbly agile motion vaulted over his bed and several others to arrive at the trouble spot in record time. He roughly hauled Jones and Mure off Mickey and drawled, “What goes, man?”

   Ginger and I had now rather belatedly also arrived on the scene, but the arrival of the duty prefect prevented further trouble.

   With lights out and the duty prefect safely out of the way, I could hear little buzzes of conversation debating the evening’s excitement. Themba on one side of me appeared to be asleep. Across the way I could dimly see Mickey twisting and turning a good deal. I had heard Themba’s, “Well done little’un,” and seen Mickey’s delighted response.  I was perhaps a little jealous and feeling guilty as well. I was the one who ought to have been reproving Jones and rushing to Mickey’s rescue. All the same I was worried by Themba’s over-religious behaviour.

   I noticed a sort of snuffily sound coming from Ginger Evans’ bed which was on my other side. I called him softly, “Ginger, are you awake?”

   As there was no reply I half sat up, leaned over his bed, shook his shoulder and said, “Hey Ginger. This is a rum do. What do you make of it?”

   Ginger was still making this snuffily sound. As he looked up the pale moonlight revealed a distressed face far removed from his normal cheery one. Surely Ginger wasn’t crying?

   “Leave me alone and go to sleep,” said Ginger harshly, turning away from me and pulling the bed clothes over his head.

   What had happened? What had I done ? This was my first rebuff ever from Ginger - he who had rescued me from the misery of those early days at the school. I felt quite lonely again. Mickey would be bound to go dashing after his hero Themba, but I didn’t feel I could go along with Themba’s Bible reading and praying antics, whether I was supposed to look after him or not. I went to sleep very uneasily. The day that seemed to go so well had turned sour.

   It scarcely seemed that I had been asleep for ten minutes or so when I was awakened by a subdued trilling, just like a muffled alarm clock. It was that. I turned over in time to see a hasty deep brown arm snake out and switch it off. It was 6.45 a.m. a full half hour before normal reveille! Two or three other boys awoke to goggle along with me as Themba Kariba repeated his evening performance with Bible reading and prayer, followed by changing from his scarlet pyjamas into an electric blue track suit and white trainers. I kept my head down as Themba finished changing, but heard him pad across to Mickey’s bed. Mickey confided in me later in that trusting way he has, that he was only half-woken by Themba’s alarm and was just emerging from a marvellous dream. He had rescued an almost senseless Themba, an African prince, from cruel bonds while awaiting an awful fate at the hands of cannibals. He had crept out with him from a hole cut in the back of a hut in true Hollywood style. Then he supported the badly dazed Themba across a swollen river against pressure from a mass of foliage swept down by the current. The foliage became stifling but suddenly changed itself into a tangle of bedding as he woke to hear, “Hiya Mickey! Is the giant-killer ready for his morning exercise?”

   “Yeah. I’m coming.”

   In two shakes of a mouse’s tail, Mickey had also donned running shorts, vest and trainers. Then the two oddly contrasted boys had trotted softly out of the dorm. I kept my head well down most of the time, in case I should get asked. Then I felt put out that Themba hadn’t approached me. Ginger appeared to have slept through the whole incident and after last night I dared not wake him.

   When the two runners returned we were just getting up. Themba was as cool as ever but Mickey appeared red-faced and puffed. Nevertheless he was in exuberant mood as he was grabbed and asked to tell his story, while Themba was in the wash-room.

   “I say you guys. It was really swell. I guess you ought to try early morning running,” boasted Mickey putting in touches of Themba-style language. “Themba is a swell runner and he is training me. Look. You have to run in step with your breathing, clench your hands loosely, keep your head up and spring off from your toes like this.”

   “And keep your mouth shut if you are going to get anywhere,” laughed Themba stealing up behind Mickey, lifting him up and whirling him through the air.

   Mickey was not a bit put out but just grinned. As soon as he was released he dashed happily off to the wash-room.

   Ginger was noticeably quiet. I didn’t like to say anything to him about what happened the preceding night, but it was awkward. After lunch Ginger did not rush into the usual playground games so I hung back with him. Mickey had taken Themba off to try and get a game of fives - a sort of handball squash, so I was alone with Ginger. I forced myself to say, “I am sorry I woke you up last night.”

   “I am the one who should be sorry,” countered Ginger quickly and then paused awkwardly. 

       CHAPTER  8  -  Jack to the Rescue

My first instinct was to run for help. I then realised that it had taken me a good hour and and a half just to reach this point from the beach where we had bathed, and that was three miles from the school. The search party had been disbanded on reaching the coast, so it was doubtful whether anyone was around now. Anything might happen to Themba in the two or three hours it would take for me to summon help. Oh, how I had wished I had remained friendly with Ginger and Mickey, and had them around to help. Had I badly misjudged Themba if he was in trouble now, or had he fallen into the hands of tramps or ruffians of some kind in his efforts to run away?

   I had to find out. I couldn’t leave Themba to his fate despite what he had done the day before. I was near crying with fright and the agony of decision. I tried praying, “Oh Lord, please help me.”

   All was silent again apart from the inexorable splash of the wavelets, but I began to remember some words which had remained in my mind ever since that CU meeting. Mr Brown was talking about the love Jesus had for ordinary people. “This means me and you to-day,” Mr Brown said. Then he quoted the Lord Jesus as saying, “I will never turn away anyone who comes to me.”

   “Please forgive me for being rotten to Ginger and Mickey and help me,” I silently and earnestly prayed, as I tugged off my shoes and socks and rolled my trousers up above the knee. The sun was hot, but the water seemed extra cold and rapidly got deeper as I tried to paddle into the cave along one side. After about five metres, my left foot slipped and my trousers got soaked. It was hopeless. I got back to the entrance of the cave with difficulty. I was wet and miserable. Was this the answer to my prayer?  Then I thought of good old Ging. I owed him so much. He might not have flashed his Bible around, but he had certainly been a good friend to me.. What would Ginger do? I had a vision of Ginger bravely charging to my rescue when he didn’t even know me - and later stripping off in a tremendous hurry to swim out and warn me about the adder.

   This was my answer. Wasn’t swimming my special hobby (at least before we went to Bardara) ? I quickly stripped down to my underpants. Holding just my pocket knife, I slipped as quietly as I could into the water, repressing my normal desire to splash madly around to get warm on first entry. It was all or nothing now. I felt strangely happy and excited - and that Ging would approve my action, if he knew.

   I transferred the knife to my mouth so I could swim the better. I had  perfected years ago a gentle side stroke which took almost no energy but was very quiet. My left arm stroked along the surface of the water and my right arm never went above. I swam stealthily in this way into the eerie blackness of the cave. Coming in from the bright sunlight was difficult, but after a little while my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. About twenty metres in, the cave tunnel turned a sharp right-angle bend. As I neared the corner, I stopped swimming altogether and allowed my momentum to carry me silently round the bend, keeping my head as low as practicable.

   Another few seconds and I lifted my head to see a ghastly scene. About twenty-five metres away was a rowing boat, and beyond a sort of rock platform lit dimly by a candle stuck into a bottle. Two men were bent over a slumped figure bound with rope. They were talking softly, but I couldn’t understand their language. On a packing case in the background was what appeared to be some form of radio apparatus with dials and an aerial assembly above.

   I was chilled with the cold water and fright. These were no tramps. One of the men straightened up near the candle and I recognised the ‘American’ Kemp! He went over to the radio and began to turn a handle at the side. An audible hum started up and the other man whom I guessed was Stein, also went across and began manipulating the knobs. There was a faint crackle of atmospherics and the quick-fire tapping of a morse key.

   The noise stirred the slouched figure into movement. He sat up and I saw, as I had assumed,  that he was Themba, but strangely different. His bare head shone unnaturally in the candle-light. Then I realised that all his curly hair had apparently been cut off  !

   After a minute or two the morse tapping stopped. Kemp went over to Themba and said in his twangy American way, “In 48 hours your father will receive a specially speeded delivery of an air-mail packet containing a small quantity of curly black wool, with a request for some information that we need about his latest scientific research. He’ll be told that the wool comes from a black Harlington goat and also, if he doesn’t co-operate very quickly, we’ll be sending him something else next.”

   Themba made a noise that was unintelligible. I had gradually been drifting in closer. I now saw that Themba’s shirt had been ripped off his back and used to gag him. Poor Themba. What a frightful mess. He must have run into these ruthless foreign agents after escaping, with our help, from Barnes and co. I could see I would have to say, ‘Very sorry,’ to Themba also, if we ever managed to get out alive.

   But what could I do? I was near naked and had just my pocket knife, whereas the two men looked formidably bulky, and I could make out what looked like a revolver lying by the radio gear. By this time I was hiding at the back of the rowing boat. At deep water this must be their only way of getting out of the cave, short of swimming. An idea exploded in my mind.

   I waited until Kemp and Stein went back to operate the radio again, and then I acted. I cut through the tow rope as silently as I could, slipped round to the stern, and began pulling the boat slowly backwards away from the end of the cave and down the tunnel towards the open sea. I glanced occasionally at the scene in front of me to try and assess whether I had been spotted. I had an uncanny feeling that Themba had perhaps noticed something. Another thirty seconds and maybe I could reach the safety of the right-angle bend in the tunnel.

   Then I noticed a hasty movement by one of the men and some noisy swearing in an unknown tongue. The loss of the boat had been discovered. I began to strengthen my back stroke leg kick to try and get a greater speed. I looked once again. One man was stripping off jacket and boots: the other was carefully aiming a revolver in my direction. At the same moment I saw Themba, despite being tied up, somehow launch himself bodily on to the man with the gun. There was a loud echoing report in the confined space of the cave, but the shot had gone wide thanks to the superhuman effort by Themba. There followed a stream of invective and also two more pistol shots. But by then I was pulling the boat round the corner of the tunnel, and had solid rock protecting me. There was still the danger that one of the men might come swimming after me, so I climbed rapidly into the boat and scrabbled fiercely at the rock sides of the tunnel to propel it out into the open, putting up with bloodied finger nails.

   At last I was out into daylight and able to put the oars into the rowlocks. I rowed frantically out to sea until the cave opening was only a small hole. There was no sign of pursuit and the landscape looked peaceful. The whole thing might have been a bad dream, but for my bloodied and aching fingers and the fact that I was wearing only my underpants. I simply daren’t go back to the cave for my trousers, shirt, socks and shoes.

   All I needed to do now was to row along the coast for a while, and then into shore to summon help. I was delighted beyond measure. The ‘Americans’ and Themba were holed up for at least an hour or so, if my tidal estimate was right. That would give me a chance to raise the alarm.

   It was then that I noticed an extra cold feeling creeping up my ankles. Water was seeping up through the bottom planks of the boat. On one side was a small jet of water. It must have been a bullet hole. I savagely pulled with one oar to turn the boat’s head to the shore, and then rowed with increasing difficulty the water-logged boat. I tried to stop up the hole with my foot, but it seemed to make little difference. The receding tide added to my difficulties: there was a strong sideways current which also went slightly away from the land.

   As the water reached seat level, I gave up the struggle and slid reluctantly once more into the cold water. I was only about 100 metres from the shore, but the tide was against me and I was already tired and cold from efforts in escaping from the cave. I swam grimly on but it was a terrible ordeal. I had no strength to choose where I might land. I found I was heading for one of the rocky outcrops where there was little sand or shingle. By the time my feet at last were able to touch a rocky bottom, my head was roaring. I was so tired that stubbing my toes and bruising my ankles seemed of little account. I pushed on towards the shore on top of an underwater rock, when I was half-knocked and half-slipped into deeper water again. I went under and my head received a nasty knock, causing me to swallow some water. I was desperate and near to panic.

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