{"id":1146,"date":"2026-06-25T17:53:29","date_gmt":"2026-06-25T22:53:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/aflorebooks.com\/?post_type=digital-library&p=1146"},"modified":"2026-06-27T16:24:55","modified_gmt":"2026-06-27T21:24:55","slug":"chapter-6","status":"publish","type":"digital-library","link":"https:\/\/aflorebooks.com\/es\/digital-library\/the-lost-world\/chapter-6\/","title":{"rendered":"Chapter 6: I Was the Flail of the Lord"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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3.474 words<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n
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Lord John Roxton and I turned down Vigo Street together and through the dingy portals of the famous aristocratic rookery. At the end of a long drab passage my new acquaintance pushed open a door and turned on an electric switch. A number of lamps shining through tinted shades bathed the whole great room before us in a ruddy radiance. Standing in the doorway and glancing round me, I had a general impression of extraordinary comfort and elegance combined with an atmosphere of masculine virility. Everywhere there were mingled the luxury of the wealthy man of taste and the careless untidiness of the bachelor. Rich furs and strange iridescent mats from some Oriental bazaar were scattered upon the floor. Pictures and prints which even my unpractised eyes could recognise as being of great price and rarity hung thick upon the walls. Sketches of boxers, of ballet girls, and of racehorses alternated with a sensuous Fragonard, a martial Girardet, and a dreamy Turner. But amid these varied ornaments there were scattered the trophies which brought back strongly to my recollection the fact that Lord John Roxton was one of the great all-round sportsmen and athletes of his day. A dark-blue oar crossed with a cherry-pink one above his mantelpiece spoke of the old Oxonian and Leander man, while the foils and boxing gloves above and below them were the tools of a man who had won supremacy with each. Like a dado round the room was the jutting line of splendid heavy game-heads, the best of their sort from every quarter of the world, with the rare white rhinoceros of the Lado Enclave drooping its supercilious lip above them all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the centre of the rich red carpet was a black and gold Louis Quinze table, a lovely antique, now sacrilegiously desecrated with marks of glasses and the scars of cigar-stumps. On it stood a silver tray of smokables and a burnished spirit stand, from which and an adjacent siphon my silent host proceeded to charge two high glasses. Having indicated an armchair to me and placed my refreshment near it, he handed me a long, smooth Havana. Then, seating himself opposite to me, he looked at me long and fixedly with his strange, twinkling, reckless eyes\u2014eyes of a cold light blue, the colour of a glacier lake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Through the thin haze of my cigar smoke I noted the details of a face which was already familiar to me from many photographs\u2014the strongly-curved nose, the hollow, worn cheeks, the dark, ruddy hair, thin at the top, the crisp, virile moustaches, the small, aggressive tuft upon his projecting chin. Something there was of Napoleon III, something of Don Quixote, and yet again something which was the essence of the English country gentleman, the keen, alert, open-air lover of dogs and of horses. His skin was of a rich flower pot red from sun and wind. His eyebrows were tufted and overhanging, which gave those naturally cold eyes an almost ferocious aspect, an impression which was increased by his strong and furrowed brow. In figure he was spare, but very strongly built\u2014indeed, he had often proved that there were few men in England capable of such sustained exertions. His height was a little over six feet, but he seemed shorter on account of a peculiar rounding of the shoulders. Such was the famous Lord John Roxton as he sat opposite to me, biting hard upon his cigar and watching me steadily in a long and embarrassing silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d said he, at last, \u201cwe\u2019ve gone and done it, young fellah my lad.\u201d (This curious phrase he pronounced as if it were all one word: \u201cyoung-fellah-me-lad.\u201d) \u201cYes, we\u2019ve taken a jump, you an\u2019 me. I suppose, now, when you went into that room there was no such notion in your head\u2014what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo thought of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe same here. No thought of it. And here we are, up to our necks in the tureen. Why, I\u2019ve only been back three weeks from Uganda, and taken a place in Scotland, and signed the lease and all. Pretty goin\u2019s on\u2014what? How does it hit you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, it is all in the main line of my business. I am a journalist on the Gazette<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course\u2014you said so when you took it on. By the way, I\u2019ve got a small job for you, if you\u2019ll help me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith pleasure.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t mind takin\u2019 a risk, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is the risk?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, it\u2019s Ballinger\u2014he\u2019s the risk. You\u2019ve heard of him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy, young fellah, where have<\/em> you lived? Sir John Ballinger is the best gentleman jock in the north country. I could hold him on the flat at my best, but over jumps he\u2019s my master. Well, it\u2019s an open secret that when he\u2019s out of trainin\u2019 he drinks hard\u2014strikin\u2019 an average, he calls it. He got delirium on Toosday, and has been ragin\u2019 like a devil ever since. His room is above this. The doctors say that it is all up with the old dear unless some food is got into him, but as he lies in bed with a revolver on his coverlet, and swears he will put six of the best through anyone that comes near him, there\u2019s been a bit of a strike among the serving men. He\u2019s a hard nail, is Jack, and a dead shot, too, but you can\u2019t leave a Grand National winner to die like that\u2014what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean to do, then?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, my idea was that you and I could rush him. He may be dozin\u2019, and at the worst he can only wing one of us, and the other should have him. If we can get his bolster cover round his arms and then \u2019phone up a stomach pump, we\u2019ll give the old dear the supper of his life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a rather desperate business to come suddenly into one\u2019s day\u2019s work. I don\u2019t think that I am a particularly brave man. I have an Irish imagination which makes the unknown and the untried more terrible than they are. On the other hand, I was brought up with a horror of cowardice and with a terror of such a stigma. I dare say that I could throw myself over a precipice, like the Hun in the history books, if my courage to do it were questioned, and yet it would surely be pride and fear, rather than courage, which would be my inspiration. Therefore, although every nerve in my body shrank from the whisky-maddened figure which I pictured in the room above, I still answered, in as careless a voice as I could command, that I was ready to go. Some further remark of Lord Roxton\u2019s about the danger only made me irritable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTalking won\u2019t make it any better,\u201d said I. \u201cCome on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I rose from my chair and he from his. Then with a little confidential chuckle of laughter, he patted me two or three times on the chest, finally pushing me back into my chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right, sonny my lad\u2014you\u2019ll do,\u201d said he.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked up in surprise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI saw after Jack Ballinger myself this mornin\u2019. He blew a hole in the skirt of my kimono, bless his shaky old hand, but we got a jacket on him, and he\u2019s to be all right in a week. I say, young fellah, I hope you don\u2019t mind\u2014what? You see, between you an\u2019 me close-tiled, I look on this South American business as a mighty serious thing, and if I have a pal with me I want a man I can bank on. So I sized you down, and I\u2019m bound to say that you came well out of it. You see, it\u2019s all up to you and me, for this old Summerlee man will want dry nursin\u2019 from the first. By the way, are you by any chance the Malone who is expected to get his Rugby cap for Ireland?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA reserve, perhaps.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought I remembered your face. Why, I was there when you got that try against Richmond\u2014as fine a swervin\u2019 run as I saw the whole season. I never miss a Rugby match if I can help it, for it is the manliest game we have left. Well, I didn\u2019t ask you in here just to talk sport. We\u2019ve got to fix our business. Here are the sailin\u2019s, on the first page of the Times<\/em>. There\u2019s a Booth boat for Par\u00e1 next Wednesday week, and if the Professor and you can work it, I think we should take it\u2014what? Very good, I\u2019ll fix it with him. What about your outfit?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy paper will see to that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you shoot?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAbout average Territorial standard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood Lord! as bad as that? It\u2019s the last thing you young fellahs think of learnin\u2019. You\u2019re all bees without stings, so far as lookin\u2019 after the hive goes. You\u2019ll look silly, some o\u2019 these days, when someone comes along an\u2019 sneaks the honey. But you\u2019ll need to hold your gun straight in South America, for, unless our friend the Professor is a madman or a liar, we may see some queer things before we get back. What gun have you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He crossed to an oaken cupboard, and as he threw it open I caught a glimpse of glistening rows of parallel barrels, like the pipes of an organ.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll see what I can spare you out of my own battery,\u201d said he.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One by one he took out a succession of beautiful rifles, opening and shutting them with a snap and a clang, and then patting them as he put them back into the rack as tenderly as a mother would fondle her children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is a Bland\u2019s .577 axite express,\u201d said he. \u201cI got that big fellow with it.\u201d He glanced up at the white rhinoceros. \u201cTen more yards, and he\u2019d have added me to his<\/em> collection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018On that conical bullet his one chance hangs,
\u2018Tis the weak one\u2019s advantage fair.\u2019<\/em><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHope you know your Gordon, for he\u2019s the poet of the horse and the gun and the man that handles both. Now, here\u2019s a useful tool\u2014.470, telescopic sight, double ejector, point-blank up to three-fifty. That\u2019s the rifle I used against the Peruvian slave drivers three years ago. I was the flail of the Lord up in those parts, I may tell you, though you won\u2019t find it in any blue book. There are times, young fellah, when every one of us must make a stand for human right and justice, or you never feel clean again. That\u2019s why I made a little war on my own. Declared it myself, waged it myself, ended it myself. Each of those nicks is for a slave murderer\u2014a good row of them\u2014what? That big one is for Pedro L\u00f3pez, the king of them all, that I killed in a backwater of the Putumayo River. Now, here\u2019s something that would do for you.\u201d He took out a beautiful brown-and-silver rifle. \u201cWell rubbered at the stock, sharply sighted, five cartridges to the clip. You can trust your life to that.\u201d He handed it to me and closed the door of his oak cabinet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBy the way,\u201d he continued, coming back to his chair, \u201cwhat do you know of this Professor Challenger?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI never saw him till today.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, neither did I. It\u2019s funny we should both sail under sealed orders from a man we don\u2019t know. He seemed an uppish old bird. His brothers of science don\u2019t seem too fond of him, either. How came you to take an interest in the affair?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told him shortly my experiences of the morning, and he listened intently. Then he drew out a map of South America and laid it on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI believe every single word he said to you was the truth,\u201d said he, earnestly, \u201cand, mind you, I have something to go on when I speak like that. South America is a place I love, and I think, if you take it right through from D\u00e1rien to Fuego, it\u2019s the grandest, richest, most wonderful bit of earth upon this planet. People don\u2019t know it yet, and don\u2019t realise what it may become. I\u2019ve been up an\u2019 down it from end to end, and had two dry seasons in those very parts, as I told you when I spoke of the war I made on the slave dealers. Well, when I was up there I heard some yarns of the same kind\u2014traditions of Indians and the like, but with somethin\u2019 behind them, no doubt. The more you knew of that country, young fellah, the more you would understand that anythin\u2019 was possible\u2014anythin\u2019<\/em>. There are just some narrow water lanes along which folk travel, and outside that it is all darkness. Now, down here in the Mato Grosso\u201d\u2014he swept his cigar over a part of the map\u2014\u201cor up in this corner where three countries meet, nothin\u2019 would surprise me. As that chap said tonight, there are fifty-thousand miles of waterway runnin\u2019 through a forest that is very near the size of Europe. You and I could be as far away from each other as Scotland is from Constantinople, and yet each of us be in the same great Brazilian forest. Man has just made a track here and a scrape there in the maze. Why, the river rises and falls the best part of forty feet, and half the country is a morass that you can\u2019t pass over. Why shouldn\u2019t somethin\u2019 new and wonderful lie in such a country? And why shouldn\u2019t we be the men to find it out? Besides,\u201d he added, his queer, gaunt face shining with delight, \u201cthere\u2019s a sportin\u2019 risk in every mile of it. I\u2019m like an old golf ball\u2014I\u2019ve had all the white paint knocked off me long ago. Life can whack me about now, and it can\u2019t leave a mark. But a sportin\u2019 risk, young fellah, that\u2019s the salt of existence. Then it\u2019s worth livin\u2019 again. We\u2019re all gettin\u2019 a deal too soft and dull and comfy. Give me the great waste lands and the wide spaces, with a gun in my fist and somethin\u2019 to look for that\u2019s worth findin\u2019. I\u2019ve tried war and steeplechasin\u2019 and aeroplanes, but this huntin\u2019 of beasts that look like a lobster-supper dream is a brand-new sensation.\u201d He chuckled with glee at the prospect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perhaps I have dwelt too long upon this new acquaintance, but he is to be my comrade for many a day, and so I have tried to set him down as I first saw him, with his quaint personality and his queer little tricks of speech and of thought. It was only the need of getting in the account of my meeting which drew me at last from his company. I left him seated amid his pink radiance, oiling the lock of his favourite rifle, while he still chuckled to himself at the thought of the adventures which awaited us. It was very clear to me that if dangers lay before us I could not in all England have found a cooler head or a braver spirit with which to share them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night, wearied as I was after the wonderful happenings of the day, I sat late with McArdle, the news editor, explaining to him the whole situation, which he thought important enough to bring next morning before the notice of Sir George Beaumont, the chief. It was agreed that I should write home full accounts of my adventures in the shape of successive letters to McArdle, and that these should either be edited for the Gazette<\/em> as they arrived, or held back to be published later, according to the wishes of Professor Challenger, since we could not yet know what conditions he might attach to those directions which should guide us to the unknown land. In response to a telephone inquiry, we received nothing more definite than a fulmination against the Press, ending up with the remark that if we would notify our boat he would hand us any directions which he might think it proper to give us at the moment of starting. A second question from us failed to elicit any answer at all, save a plaintive bleat from his wife to the effect that her husband was in a very violent temper already, and that she hoped we would do nothing to make it worse. A third attempt, later in the day, provoked a terrific crash, and a subsequent message from the Central Exchange that Professor Challenger\u2019s receiver had been shattered. After that we abandoned all attempt at communication.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And now my patient readers, I can address you directly no longer. From now onwards (if, indeed, any continuation of this narrative should ever reach you) it can only be through the paper which I represent. In the hands of the editor I leave this account of the events which have led up to one of the most remarkable expeditions of all time, so that if I never return to England there shall be some record as to how the affair came about. I am writing these last lines in the saloon of the Booth liner Francisca<\/em>, and they will go back by the pilot to the keeping of Mr. McArdle. Let me draw one last picture before I close the notebook\u2014a picture which is the last memory of the old country which I bear away with me. It is a wet, foggy morning in the late spring; a thin, cold rain is falling. Three shining mackintoshed figures are walking down the quay, making for the gang-plank of the great liner from which the blue peter is flying. In front of them a porter pushes a trolley piled high with trunks, wraps, and gun cases. Professor Summerlee, a long, melancholy figure, walks with dragging steps and drooping head, as one who is already profoundly sorry for himself. Lord John Roxton steps briskly, and his thin, eager face beams forth between his hunting cap and his muffler. As for myself, I am glad to have got the bustling days of preparation and the pangs of leave-taking behind me, and I have no doubt that I show it in my bearing. Suddenly, just as we reach the vessel, there is a shout behind us. It is Professor Challenger, who had promised to see us off. He runs after us, a puffing, red-faced, irascible figure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo thank you,\u201d says he; \u201cI should much prefer not to go aboard. I have only a few words to say to you, and they can very well be said where we are. I beg you not to imagine that I am in any way indebted to you for making this journey. I would have you to understand that it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, and I refuse to entertain the most remote sense of personal obligation. Truth is truth, and nothing which you can report can affect it in any way, though it may excite the emotions and allay the curiosity of a number of very ineffectual people. My directions for your instruction and guidance are in this sealed envelope. You will open it when you reach a town upon the Amazon which is called Manaus, but not until the date and hour which is marked upon the outside. Have I made myself clear? I leave the strict observance of my conditions entirely to your honour. No, Mr. Malone, I will place no restriction upon your correspondence, since the ventilation of the facts is the object of your journey; but I demand that you shall give no particulars as to your exact destination, and that nothing be actually published until your return. Goodbye, sir. You have done something to mitigate my feelings for the loathsome profession to which you unhappily belong. Goodbye, Lord John. Science is, as I understand, a sealed book to you; but you may congratulate yourself upon the hunting field which awaits you. You will, no doubt, have the opportunity of describing in the Field<\/em> how you brought down the rocketing Dimorphodon<\/em>. And goodbye to you also, Professor Summerlee. If you are still capable of self-improvement, of which I am frankly unconvinced, you will surely return to London a wiser man.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So he turned upon his heel, and a minute later from the deck I could see his short, squat figure bobbing about in the distance as he made his way back to his train. Well, we are well down Channel now. There\u2019s the last bell for letters, and it\u2019s goodbye to the pilot. We\u2019ll be \u201cdown, hull-down, on the old trail\u201d from now on. God bless all we leave behind us, and send us safely back.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
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