The Hardy Boys Mystery Stories 21 страница

Robert Falcon Scott

Robert Falcon Scott, known as Captain Scott or Scott of the Antarctic, was a British polar explorer. He joined the Royal Navy in 1882. Although he had no previous experience of polar research, in 1900 he became the leader of the British Antarctic Expedition. This expedition, known as the Discovery Expedition lasted from 1901 to 1904. Among other important things it determined the nature and size of the Ross Ice Shelf in Antarctica.

The aim of Scott’s second expedition in 1910-12 was to reach the South Pole. Departing from Cardiff, Wales, on the ship Terra Nova, the expedition reached the Antarctic coast in 1911. There Scott learned that the Norwegian explorer, Roald Amundsen, had already left for the Pole. So Scott’s chance to reach the South Pole before R. Amundsen was poor.

Equipped with motor tractors, ponies and dogs, Scott and 11 members of his team set off for the Pole on 24 October, 1911. Unfortunately, the motor tractors rapidly broke down and their ponies were unsuitable for Antarctic conditions. Very soon, six members of the team were sent back. The five explorers continued their dangerous journey across the snowy desert. On 16 January, they saw a black marker flag left by the Norwegian expedition, and two days later the party reached the South Pole itself, where the Norwegians had built a snow marker. Amundsen had reached the South Pole more than a month earlier, on 14 December 1911. Scott was greatly disappointed after the exhausting 81-day journey and recorded in his diary, "This is an awful place and terrible enough for us to have reached it without the reward of priority."

However, the 800 mile return journey was even more terrible. Two members fell ill and died, and the remaining explorers were frozen inside their tent in a terrible nine-day snowstorm. The last entry in Scott's diary was made on 29 March.

Eight months later a search party, led by Dr Atkinson, discovered the tent and the bodies of the explorers, along with the diaries and last letters of Scott. Scott had written a message explaining the reasons for the failure. The search party buried the brave explorers and built a snow memorial on their grave. Later, another memorial was put up at Observation Hill, at Hut Point (Antarctica) with the words ‘to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.’

The news about the death of the Polar team reached Britain in February 1913. Within days, Scott became a national icon. A memorial service was held in St Paul’s Cathedral. A campaign was launched to raise a memorial fund to continue the scientific work Scott had carried out. The Scott Polar Research Institute was founded. In the several years following the disaster, more than 30 monuments and memorials were set up in Britain alone.

Christmas Fire

Dan had sweet memories of his childhood years, especially Christmas. In those days, he had lived in Wales, in a small town. He remembered the white snow in the garden and a cold moon in the sky at night. December was always cold and frosty. Dan spent lots of time outdoors because he liked playing in the snow. While Dan was growing up, each Christmas was much like the last: Christmas tree, Christmas wishes, Christmas presents under the tree, Christmas dinner with relatives. But one of his Christmases he would remember forever.

It was many years ago, and he was 6 or 7 years old. It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Dan was playing in Mrs. Prothero’s garden with her son Jim. Dan was afraid of Mrs. Prothero because she always looked strict and harsh. She never invited him to the house. But her son Jim was different. The boys were playing cat hunters: they made lots of snowballs and prepared to attack the cats. Dan and Jim felt cold waiting for the cats to come over the garden wall. But none of them had appeared yet.

Suddenly the boys heard a loud cry from the house. At first they thought it was Mrs. Prothero’s white cat that was their main enemy. Soon the cry repeated and grew louder. Now the boys understood that it was Mrs. Prothero herself, and she was shouting ’Fire!’

The boys ran down towards the house. The door was wide open with grey smoke coming from inside. Something was burning. Mrs. Prothero desperately called for help and for Mr. Prothero, who was obviously sleeping in another room. He always slept after lunch with a newspaper over his face. Finally, Mr. Prothero appeared in the clouds of smoke in the doorway. “What a fine Christmas!” he said waving his hand like an orchestra conductor. Mrs. Prothero asked him to call the fire brigade, but he doubted that they would be available because of the holiday. But he sent the boys to the telephone box.

Dan and Jim rushed out of the house. The adventure seemed to be better than cat hunting. Jim suggested also calling the police and the ambulance. But they called only the fire brigade. The fire truck and three tall men in helmets arrived just as the boys returned to Mrs. Prothero’s house. It was the noisiest and most unusual Christmas Eve they had ever had.

The firemen started the pump and the water ran into the house. When it was all over, Mr. and Mrs. Prothero were standing in their wet and smoky room with a grey Christmas tree in the middle. The room looked a complete mess. Mrs. Prothero opened the oven and took out a burnt cake. She was in tears – it had been a horrible Christmas.

Just as the firemen were going to leave, Jim’s aunt, Miss Prothero, came back home. She looked surprised at the crowd of neighbours but did not give way to panic. She opened a colourful paper bag and produced a nice Christmas cake from the nearest shop. Then she smiled and said, “Merry Christmas! Everything will be all right!”

A Missing Street

Mark had worked in the Сity Hall for more than twenty years. He registered the files with the names of all the streets in Montreal. Mark lived near the City Hall and rarely walked round the city, but he knew the location of the streets very well. He knew Montreal better than the policemen or taxi drivers.

His job was pretty dull and monotonous, but Mark preferred the office to his flat in Oven Street anyway. His neighbours were noisy and unpleasant. Every time he tried to explain the importance of his work, they looked down on him as a low-level clerk. They failed to understand that they got their mail only because Oven Street had its postal index in one of the files in the City Hall.

Once Mark’s peaceful life was disturbed. He opened one of the drawers in his study and found an index card stuck at the back. He drew it out carefully. Green Bottle Street it said. Mark stared at it in wonder. He could not remember any street with that name. He searched all the files but could not find anything. It was not on the list.

Mark examined the card once more. There was no mistake. The paper was old and yellow. The last inspection date marked on the card was more than fifteen years before. Mark was frozen with horror. It was a lost, forgotten street! For so many years it had existed a mile away from the Hall, and nobody knew about it.

Deep in his heart, Mark sometimes had thought of such a possibility. There were so many winding streets in the city that it looked like a labyrinth. But with all these files it simply could not happen. Vaguely he remembered that at the beginning of his career his office had moved to another floor and all the cards were made afresh. Maybe at that time one of the cards had got stuck in the drawer.

Mark slept badly that night. In the morning he put the card in his pocket and went looking for Green Bottle Street. Though he knew its location, he passed it twice. Finally, he came up to a wooden door, behind which a narrow street started. He opened the door and stepped inside. Green Bottle Street lay before him.

It was named after its shape. On either side of the street there were three well-kept houses with nice, small gardens in front. At the end of the street there was a brick wall, which separated it from the rest of the world. Everything there was quiet and safe. An old woman was watering roses in one of the gardens.

She told Mark that they used to pay taxes and get the mail until they were forgotten. Then they built a wooden door with a lock to protect their tiny peaceful area from passers-by and officials. They helped people who got tired of the busy city and wanted to take a break for a while. Some rooms in the houses were for rent.

Mark understood that the yellow card he had found in the drawer could break people’s peaceful but fragile world. He sighed and tore the card to pieces. For all he cared, Green Bottle Street could remain lost forever.