Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (книги онлайн без регистрации полностью .TXT) 📗

dramatic impact of her story the fact that the biblical warriors of

Ethiopia had been supported by armoured cars and

Vickers machine guns were details of this type, and she ignored them as

she ended, "But how much longer can these proud, simple and gallant

people continue to fight off the greedy lusting hordes of a modern

Caesar intent on Empire? A miracle happened here today on the plains

of Danakil, but the age of miracles is passing and it is clear even to

those who have thrown in their lot with this fair land of Ethiopia that

she is doomed unless the sleeping conscience of a civilized world is

aroused, unless the voice of justice rings out clearly, calling to the

tyrant Hands off, Benito Mussolini!"

"That's wonderful, Miss

Camberwell," said Sara, leaning over to read the last words as they

tapped out on the roller of the machine. "It makes me want to cry,

it's so sad and "I'm glad you like it, Sara. I wish you were my

editor." Vicky stripped the page from the machine and checked it

swiftly, crossing out a word and inking in another before she was

satisfied, and she folded the despatch into a thick brown envelope and

licked the flap.

"Are you sure he is reliable?" she asked Sara.

"Oh, yes, Miss Camberwell, he is one of my father's best men."

Sara took the envelope and handed it to the warrior who had been

waiting an hour outside the tent, squatting at the head of his saddled

horse.

Sara spoke to him with great fire and passion, and the man nodded

vehemently as she exhorted him and then flung himself into the saddle

and dashed away towards the darkening mouth of the gorge, where the

smoky blue shadows of evening were enfolding the harsh cliffs and

jagged peaks of the mountains.

"He will be at Sardi before midnight. I have told him not to pause

along the way. Your message will go on to the telegraph at dawn

tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Sara dear." Vicky rose from the camp table and as she

covered her typewriter, Sara eyed her speculatively.

Vicky had bathed and changed into the one good dress she had brought

with her, a light Irish linen in a pale blue, cut with a fashionably

low waist and skirt that covered her knees but displayed rounded calves

and the narrow delicately shaped ankles which gleamed in their sheaths

of fine silk stockings.

"Your dress is pretty," said Sara softly, "and your hair is so soft and

yellow." She sighed. "I wish I were beautiful like you are.

I wish I had a lovely white skin like you."

"And I wish I had a beautiful golden skin like yours," Vicky countered

swiftly, and they laughed together.

"Are you dressed like that for Gareth? He will love you very much when

he sees you. Let us go and find him."

"I've got a better idea,

Sara. why don't you go and find Gregorius. I am sure he is looking

for you." Sara thought about that for a moment, torn between duty and

pleasure.

"Are you certain you'll be all right on your own, Miss

Camberwell?"

"Oh, I think so thank you, Sara. If I get into trouble

I'll call you."

"I'll come right away," Sara assured her.

Vicky knew exactly where she would find Jake Barton, and she came up

silently beside the tall steel hull and watched for a while as he

worked, completely absorbed and totally oblivious of her presence.

She wondered how she had been so blind as not to have seen him properly

before, not to have seen beneath the boyish freshness the strength and

quiet assurance of a full mature man. It was an ageless face, and she

knew that even when he was an old man the illusion of youth and

freshness would remain with him. Yet there was an intensity in the

eyes, a steely purpose in the heavy line of the jaw that she had never

noticed before. She remembered the dream of his that he had told her

the factory building his own engine and in a clairvoyant flash she knew

that he had the determination and the strength to make it become

reality. Suddenly she longed to share it with him, and knew that their

two dreams could be placed together, his engine and her book, they

could be created together, each gathering strength from the other,

pooling their determination and their creative reserves. it would be

worth while to share both dreams with a man like Jake Barton.

"Perhaps being in love allows one to see more clearly," she thought, as

she watched him with secret pleasure. "Or perhaps it simply makes it

easy to kid yourself," and she felt annoyance that her natural cynicism

should overtake her now.

"No," she decided. "It's not make believe. He is strong and good and

he'll stay that way," and immediately she thought that perhaps she was

trying too hard to convince herself.

Unbidden, the memory of the night she had spent so recently with

another man flooded back to her, and for a moment she found herself

confused and uncertain. She tried to thrust the memory firmly aside,

but it nagged at her, and she found herself comparing two men,

remembering the wanton and wicked delights she had known,-and doubting

wistfully that she might ever recapture them.

Then she looked closer at the man she thought she loved, and saw that

although his arms were thick and dark with hair, and his hands were

large and heavy-knuckled, yet the thick spatulate fiLigers worked with

an almost sensuous skill and lightness, and she tried to imagine them

moving on her skin and the image was so clear and voluptuous that she

shuddered and drew in her breath sharply.

Immediately Jake looked up at her, the surprise in his eyes changing

instantly to pleasure, and that slow warm smile spreading over his face

as he ran his eyes swiftly from the top of her silken head down to the

silken ankles.

"Hello, haven't I met you somewhere before?" he asked, and she laughed

and pirouetted, flaring the dress.

"Do you like it?" she asked. He nodded silently and then asked,

"Are we going somewhere special?"

"The Ras's feast, didn't you know?"

not sure I can stan another of his feasts, don't know which is more

dangerous an Italian attack or that liquid dynamite he serves."

"You'll have to be there you're one of the heroes of the great victory,

and Jake grunted and returned his attention to Priscilla the Pig's

internal processes.

"Have you found the trouble?"

"No." Jake sighed with resignation.

"I've taken her to pieces and put her together again and I can't find a

thing." He stood back, shaking his head and wiping his greasy hands on

a wad of cotton waste. "I don't know. I just don't know."

"Have you tried starting her again?"

"No point in that not until I find and cure the trouble."

"Try,"said Vicky, and he grinned at her.

"It's no use but to humour you." He stooped to the crank handle,

and Priscilla fired at the first swing, caught and ran smoothly,

purring like a great hump-backed cat in front of the fire.

"My God." Jake stepped back and stared in amazement.

"There's just no logic to it."

"She's a lady," Vicky explained.

"You know that and there isn't necessarily logic in the way a lady

behaves." He turned to face her directly and grinned at her, such a