The Black Stallion [antikvár]

I Homeward bound The tramp steamer Drake ploughed away from the coast of India and pushed its blunt prow into the Arabian Sea, homeward bound. Slowly it made its way west towards the Gulf of Aden. Its hold was loaded with coffee, rice, tea, oil seeds and jute. Black smoke poiu-ed from its one stack, darkening the hot cloudless sky. Alexander Ramsay, Jr, known to his friends back home in New York City as Alec, leaned over the rail and watched the water slide away from the sides of the boat. His red hair blazed redder than ever in the hot sun; his tanned elbows rested heavily on the rail as he turned his freckled face back towards the fast-disappearing shore. It had been fun - those two months in India. He would miss Uncle Ralph, miss the days they had spent together in the jungle, even the screams of the panthers and the many eerie sounds of the jungle night. Never again would he think of a missionary's work as 'sissy' work. No, sir, you had to be big and strong, able to ride horseback for long hours through the tangled jungle paths. Alec glanced down proudly at the hard muscles in his arms. Uncle Ralph had taught him how to ride - the one thing in the world he had always wanted to do. But it was all over now. Rides back home would be few. His fist opened. Lovingly he surveyed the pearl pocket knife he held there. The inscription on it was in gold: To Alec on his birthday, Bombay, India. He remembered, too, his uncle's words: 'A knife. Alec, comes in handy sometimes.' Suddenly a large hand descended on his shoulder. 'Well, m'boy, you're on your way home,' a gruff voice said, with a decidedly English accent. I ¦¦