The Rupa Book Of Thrills And Spills Read online

  'The small, tawny lioness... had sprung from her heavy stool... and seemed to be in mid-air, streaking towards me with claws outstretched.'

  Your heart races, your mind whirls.. .what happens next? Another collectible from master anthologiser, Ruskin Bond, this volume does more than keep you on the edge of your seat!

  Recounted by brave, heroic, lovable characters who survived to tell their tale, these racy stories deal with lives lived on the edge - stuntmen and gamblers, explorers and sword-swallowers, liontamers and pilots - all snatched from the jaws of irrevocable harm - and death. Interwoven with clever wit and lively humour, these escapades will transport you to a world filled with excitement, peopled with those who fought against all odds, venturing into the world for the love of thrill and adventure.

  Ruskin Bond, well-known as one of India's best-loved and most prolific writers, has been writing novels, poetry, essays and short stories for almost half a century now. Apart from this, over the years he has expertly compiled and edited a number of anthologies, For his outstanding literary contribution, he was awarded the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957, the Sahitya Akademi award in 1992 (for English writing in India) and the Padma Shri in 1999.

  www.rupapublications.com

  THE RUPA BOOK

  OF

  THRILLS AND SPILLS

  By the same author:

  Angry River

  A Little Night Music

  A Long Walk for Bina

  Hanuman to the Rescue

  Ghost Stories from the Raj

  Strange Men, Strange Places

  The India I Love

  Tales and Legends from India

  The Blue Umbrella

  Ruskin Bond's Children's Omnibus

  The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-I

  The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-II

  The Ruskin Bond Omnibus-III

  Rupa Book of Great Animal Stories

  The Rupa Book of True Tales of Mystery and Adventure

  The Rupa Book of Ruskin Bond's Himalayan Tales

  The Rupa Book of Great Suspense Stories

  The Rupa Laughter Omnibus

  The Rupa Book of Scary Stories

  The Rupa Book of Haunted Houses

  The Rupa Book of Travellers' Tales

  The Rupa Book of Great Crime Stories

  The Rupa Book of Nightmare Tales

  The Rupa Book of Shikar Stories

  The Rupa Book of Love Stories

  The Rupa Book of Wicked Stories

  The Rupa Book of Heartwarming Stories

  The Rupa Book of Thrills and Spills

  THE RUPA BOOK

  OF

  THRILLS AND SPILLS

  Edited by

  Ruskin Bond

  Typeset copyright © Rupa & Co. 2005

  Selection and Introduction Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2005

  First Published 2005

  This edition 2010

  Second Impression 2011

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj,

  New Delhi 110 002

  Sales Centres:

  Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai

  Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu

  Kolkata Mumbai

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

  retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

  electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

  without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Typeset in 13 pts. AmericanGaramound by

  Mindways Design

  1410 Chiranjiv Tower

  43 Nehru Place

  New Delhi 110 019

  Printed in India by

  Gopsons Papers Ltd.

  A-14 Sector 60

  Noida 201 301

  Contents

  Introduction

  First Day in the Life of a Lion Trainer

  Patricia Bourne

  Two Lovely Black Eyes

  John Tranum

  Bill Neate Versus the Gasman

  William Hazlitt

  Adventures with Airships

  H.K. Hales

  Rescue Squadron

  Philip McCutchan

  The Devil Fish' can be Deadly

  Frank W Lane

  Jorkens Practises Medicine and Magic

  Lord Dunsany

  Steel into your Stomach

  Daniel P. Mannix

  Four Men, Against the Desert

  A.P Luscombe Whyte

  When Al Capone was Ambushed

  Jack Bilbo

  Drink, Drugs and the Hope Diamond

  Evalyn Walsh McLean

  The Road is Free

  Irving Bacheller

  John Pike Catches a Whopper

  R.D. Blackmore

  The Pickwickians on the Ice

  Charles Dickens

  Escape from Java

  Ruskin Bond

  Introduction

  My legendary Uncle Ken specialised in spills of one kind or another. One of these days I must write the complete story of how we both fell into the Gomti near Lucknow. Suffice to say, it was all his fault. He fancied himself as a bit of a rower, and boasted that he had just missed getting an Oxford Blue for rowing. I learnt later that he was actually in charge of the boating shed.

  Anyway, he rowed us out into the middle of the Gomti, where the boat capsized and we had to be rescued by some obliging fishermen. The Gomti at Lucknow is not a very clean river, and I would advise against taking a dip in it. When you emerge, you will not be smelling of roses. You will be in need of a good scrubbing. If I came out looking like a mud-pie, Uncle Ken crawled up the river bank looking like the phantom of the opera just after the underground sewers had been flooded.

  Stick to mountain streams is my advice.

  The thrills and spills described in this collection of stories (mostly non-fiction) are not quite so messy, but are just as thrilling. The people involved are usually courting disaster; but being optimists and adventurous souls they usually land sunny side up if not funny side up.

  So take your pick from among the daredevils whose exploits enliven these pages—a famous 'stunt' pilot and parachutist; a successful sword-swallower (yes, it's the real thing); an intrepid woman lion-tamer; an early balloonist; a gunman with A1 Capone's gang; or the woman who bought the fabulous Hope Diamond and the curse that came with it.

  All these are true stories, and told in the first person with literary skill and polish. The only purely fictional stories are 'The Pickwickians on the Ice,' an old favourite of mine; my own 'Escape from Java' (partly true); and the 'Cricket Heron' story, which is an extract from a novel.

  In compiling these anthologies I have often discovered literary gems that have been forgotten or overlooked in the past. One of these is the delightful fishing story by R.D. Blackmore, better known as the author of Loma Doone. In this tale of an enthusiastic angler he creates new words, and resurrects old words, always using them to embellish or enliven his story. Although written over a hundred years ago, his beautiful prose remains fresh and inventive.

  Another discovery (for me) was the Cricket Heron story. The book from which it is taken appears to have been forgotten in the country of the origin, America. And yet the writing is good enough to stand on its own on any shelf of classics. Cricket Heron and his companions on the road can stand comparison with Huckleberry Finn or Chaplin's Tramp.

  Young Cricket Heron sets out to find employment, adventure, possibly a fortune. At the end of Day One he has learnt, first and foremost, a lesson as an entrepreneur:

  'So ended my first adventure in business
. It taught me the wisdom of knowing how and of being sure about it, and, further, that one is to be careful not to take more than his share of room in the world.'

  On that wise and happy note, I leave the reader to enjoy this varied assortment of tales that will tell you something about life even as they entertain you.

  Ruskin Bond

  June, 2005

  An intrepid young woman takes up a dangerous profession. Will she come through the initial ordeal?

  First Day in the Life of a Lion Trainer

  PATRICIA BOURNE

  'I shall be prepared to pay you twenty pounds a week as a learner if you can arrange to come to Paris, where my winter quarters and menagerie are, and let me see if I can teach you how to train lions and give a good performance with them.' The speaker was Mr Alfred Court, the world-famous wild-animal trainer, whose name was known all over Europe for his daring work.

  'But what if I am no good?' I asked.

  He smiled again. 'Then not much time would be wasted, for I think we should discover that within ten seconds of your first entering a lion cage. I shall have to talk with your mother. Could you arrange that tomorrow? I have to leave for Berlin tomorrow night, so I am afraid a decision will have to be made quickly. Perhaps you will discuss it with your family this evening to prepare them. That is, of course, if you yourself are interested.'

  'Yes I am,' I said. 'I'm very interested in your offer.'

  Needless to say, I telephoned mother and she, willing as always to advise and help me, came to the circus to hear what I was so excited about. Now, nobody else in our family had anything to do with the circus at all. My father had owned a respectable foreign-import business. He was also a very good sportsman. I was brought up mostly by a doting nanny and seldom spent holidays with my mother and father, but nearly always at nanny's home in the country near Clitheroe. There was a huge farm next door where my friends and I played 'circuses' with the big cart horses. During my school holidays I spent a lot of time on horseback.

  I got myself into the theatrical business because Daddy died when I was eleven, and, as I got older, I saw that it was hard for mother to cope with everything and meet all the expenses.

  I think the first shock I gave her was my job at the Blackpool Tower Ballet. From there I graduated to the Tower Circus. I knew, when I told her about my newest offer, that it was a shock to her. She'd got used to the idea of Colonel Lindsay and his whip act, in which I was partner, also the riding and swimming I did.

  Now here I was, standing in my dressing-room in pale green velvet shorts, a satin blouse, a big sombrero hat on my head, ready for my entrance in the ring, begging her to let me go to Paris for a test to become a lion trainer! Sensible as always, she said yes, she would hear Mr Court's proposition the following day, but she was horribly afraid of such a dangerous job for me. And what would people say if she agreed to let me have a try?

  I argued: 'Yes—but, Mother, I'll never be a really brilliant dancer, or a very good bareback rider,'

  I am sure she thought: 'Why can't my daughter get a nice respectable job, something safe and sound?'

  The following morning the meeting took place, and after many questions had been discussed, mostly about my safety, I received permission to go to Paris.

  And now, here I was in a gaunt grey building in the Luna Park, Bois de Boulogne, Paris, feeling terribly afraid.

  I had put on my riding-jodhpurs, and a blue cotton sports-shirt, 'Wear something quiet,' Mr Court had warned me. 'something inconspicuous—and not a skirt, unless you want them to try and hook it away from you.'

  The grooms had just finished putting up the 'runway'—a structure of steel bars like a very long winding toast rack—that linked the lion-wagon with the cage. Down this were to come the animals.

  The lion cage itself stood empty, except for five red wooden stools that the lions were to sit on. The Paris day was chilly, but nothing was as cold as my stomach. I could feel icicles of fear inside me, quivering like chandelier glass, as I stood waiting for my first test in the cage. A test to see if I had courage, will-power, and enough sense to learn to handle the five lions now so peacefully asleep in their big blue and white wagons at the side of the cage.

  Suddenly one big fellow got up, yawned, showing huge fangs, 'All the better to eat you with, my dear,' he seemed to say, as he rubbed his sides against the bars of his wagon as an old billy-goat does, sat down again and stared straight ahead.

  And I, waiting, thought to myself: 'Soon, only too soon, I shall have to go into that big round steel cage and face both you and your pals, with no bars between us at all. How will you look at me then?' And I firmly wished myself back on the other side of the Channel.

  Suddenly, Mr Court was there! I was soon to discover that he had a trick of appearing and disappearing quickly. He was also dressed in riding-breeches and a sports-shirt. He looked capable and distinguished.

  With a curt 'Good morning,' he said: 'Now, here is a light whip, made of Spanish cane, the only material in the world that makes a proper lion-whip.'

  I took hold of the whip; it was very light.

  'Also,' said Mr Court, 'you will carry a stick in your left hand, which I want you to please keep in front of you. Ready!' he said to the beast-man.

  A long iron bar drew open the doors between the cages, and rising slowly, with bored expressions on their faces, the five lions came padding down the runway and into the big cage. Quietly they were ordered to their particular red stools: obediently they went.

  So far, it was just like watching any circus-animal act. It didn't seem to have anything to do with me. Then Erik, the groom, was at my side.

  Ready,' he said, and it was a command rather than a question, as he untied the rope that loosely bound the door to the cage and Mr Court beckoned me in. I stepped inside, and heard the door clang behind me.

  'Now,' he said quietly, 'I should like to say a few words to you, here by the door. It will give the animals a chance to look at you also.'

  There was a strong smell of dung and ammonia and I became abruptly aware of five pairs of amber eyes, unwinking, each as big as a penny, staring at me. I had no idea how tall and tremendous a lion upon its circus stool is, until I came so close to them. Yet the feeling I had was not of fear. Surprisingly it was shyness. It was just as though I had blundered into a first-class compartment and was receiving the stares of lorgnetted duchesses and their resentful gentlemen. Disdain—remote, cold, aloof, and inhuman—was the message that those yellow jungle-eyes held for me. I shivered, but stood quite still. Court, his eyes never leaving the lions, came closer to me.

  'Now,' said my teacher, 'if you get into trouble—and only if, mark you—turn your whip round and use the handle, or the attacking animal will probably get a claw in the lash—and away goes your whip. If any animal attacks you, keep your stick in front of you and give the offender a sharp smack on the nose. If you are lucky then, he will probably turn away after having bitten savagely at your stick. Let him do this. He thinks a stick or whip in a person's hand is part of that person and that if he bites the stick it's really you he's biting; and as that does not seem to hurt you, he becomes discouraged. No use cracking a whip at an attacking lion. Might as well poke a straw at a madman.'

  'Won't it hurt him?' I asked.

  'Look,' said Court, 'a lion has no qualms of conscience. He isn't going to sit up nights worrying if he's killed or crippled somebody who's fond of him. But he does understand, if you stay in front of him, who's master. Go forward, forward, never backward, that's your motto. If you're cruel to a lion, he'll hate you. And if he hates you, he'll kill you some day. But even if he likes you, there comes a day when he will try to kill you. Not for any sensible reason that a human could understand; maybe just because of a glint of sunlight on your thumbnail, or a whiff of sweat—and even pretty lion trainers must sweat, believe me. Or a breeze in your hair, or the wrong edge in your voice one day when you've got a headache. Or for no reason at all, except he's a lion and you aren't.
So, when the day arrives, it's no use saying: 'Lion remember me, I'm the person who feeds you.' A firm smack on the nose or rear quarters is the only argument he'll understand.'

  'And isn't that being cruel?' I asked, hesitating.

  I was told: 'A lioness boxes a cub's ears with a blow that would nearly crush your head. Remember, please, a lion's foreleg weighs almost as much as your entire body, my girl. Lions aren't pussy cats. And if a lion hits you, you will remember it all your life—if you have any left.'

  I thought to myself: He's putting things across very vividly, and I feel an awful fool here, so I'd better do the best I can not to look like one. Also, how the people at St Anne's would delight in saying: 'I told you so! Of course she's back! We knew she'd never manage that!'

  'Come up close to the side of me,' said Cour 'We shall go over and talk to them.'

  We walked slowly together to the lions, who continued to stare—not at him, but at me. One stirred a big paw restlessly.

  'Go and tickle their noses gently with your whip,' I was told, 'and speak to them quietly by name. That first one is the lioness, Zulton.'

  Earlier Mr Court had told me how Miss Violetta d'Argent, a French lion trainer who worked for him, had recently been badly mauled by a lioness named Zulton and had lost her nerve.

  I did as I was told, thinking, 'You're the lady who did not like Violetta d'Argent.' Apparently she did not like me either, for she hissed vindictively and took a swing at my whip. What force behind that swing there was! I tried again. I poked her gently on her head and said: 'Good girl, Zulton.'

  She stared down at me, looking as if she had the prim soul of an elderly school-mistress, which, of course, she had not. Zulton never did learn to like me, although I tried to make her do so. No, her one love was Alfred Court. For him she would roll over and purr.

  The next stool was occupied by Belmonte, a huge African lion with a black mane and unusually long face, that made him look aristocratic and melancholy. His eyes were more green than amber and he stared at me curiously, with a sad hauteur.