The Air Patrol: A Story of the North-west FrontierStrang, Herbert
General
The Air Patrol: A Story of the North-west Frontier
Strang, Herbert
Adventure stories; Airplanes -- Juvenile fiction; British -- India -- Juvenile fiction; Imaginary wars and battles -- Juvenile fiction
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
THE TOWER IN THE HILLS
CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH
STALKED
CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH
A FRIEND IN NEED
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
THE FRONTIER HOUSE
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
DITTA LAL INTERPRETS
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD
CAPTURING A GUN
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH
A CHECK
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH
THE FIGHT AT THE BEND
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH
THE DEATH TRAP
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH
AD INFIMOS
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH
THE LAST FIGHT
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH
REUNION
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
NURLA BAI ASCENDS (see page 405) . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
THE AMBUSH AT THE REST-HOUSE
THE ATTACK IN THE GALLERY
A CHECK IN THE PURSUIT
RECONNOITRING IN THE AEROPLANE
GUR BUKSH DEFENDS THE MINE
THE KALMUCKS MAKE A PRISONER
LAWRENCE DROPS A BOMB
INTRODUCTORY
A summer afternoon was dwindling to night over a wild solitude among the
borderlands of Northern India. The sun had already left the deep
spacious valley, wherein, as the light waned, the greens changed to
browns, the browns deepened to black, and the broad silver band that
denoted a stream flowing along the bottom was dulled to the hue of lead.
On the west, the harsh and rugged features of the mountains, towering to
incalculable heights, were softened by the increasing shade; while the
snowy summits, flushed by the declining rays, were scarcely
distinguishable from the roseate clouds. Away to the east, where the
sunlight still lingered, the huge mountain barrier showed every
gradation of tone, from the greenish-black of the pine forest at the
foot, through varieties of purple and grey, to the mingled pink and gold
of the topmost crests. Every knob and fissure on the scarred face was
defined and accentuated, until, as the curtain of shadow stole gradually
higher, outlines were blurred, and the warm tints faded into drabs and
greys.
Along the front of the mountains on the west there was a road--a track,
rather, which might have seemed to the fancy to be desperately clinging
to the rugged surface, lest it were hurled into the precipitous valley
beneath. It followed every jut and indentation of the rock, here
broadening, narrowing there until it was no more than a shelf; with
twists and bends so abrupt and frequent that it would have been hard to
find a stretch of fifty yards that could have been called straight.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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