The Poison Belt | Page 3

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THE POISON BELT BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Being an account of another adventure of Prof. George E. Challenger,
Lord John Roxton, Prof. Summerlee, and Mr. E. D. Malone, the
discoverers of "The Lost World"

Chapter I
THE BLURRING OF LINES
It is imperative that now at once, while these stupendous events are still
clear in my mind, I should set them down with that exactness of detail
which time may blur. But even as I do so, I am overwhelmed by the
wonder of the fact that it should be our little group of the "Lost
World"--Professor Challenger, Professor Summerlee, Lord John
Roxton, and myself--who have passed through this amazing
experience.
When, some years ago, I chronicled in the Daily Gazette our
epoch-making journey in South America, I little thought that it should
ever fall to my lot to tell an even stranger personal experience, one
which is unique in all human annals and must stand out in the records

of history as a great peak among the humble foothills which surround it.
The event itself will always be marvellous, but the circumstances that
we four were together at the time of this extraordinary episode came
about in a most natural and, indeed, inevitable fashion. I will explain
the events which led up to it as shortly and as clearly as I can, though I
am well aware that the fuller the detail upon such a subject the more
welcome it will be to the reader, for the public curiosity has been and
still is insatiable.
It was upon Friday, the twenty-seventh of August--a date forever
memorable in the history of the world--that I went down to the office of
my paper and asked for three days' leave of absence from Mr. McArdle,
who still presided over our news department. The good old Scotchman
shook his head, scratched his dwindling fringe of ruddy fluff, and
finally put his reluctance into words.
"I was thinking, Mr. Malone, that we could employ you to advantage
these days. I was thinking there was a story that you are the only man
that could handle as it should be handled."
"I am sorry for that," said I, trying to hide my disappointment. "Of
course if I am needed, there is an end of the matter. But the engagement
was important and intimate. If I could be spared----"
"Well, I don't see that you can."
It was bitter, but I had to put the best face I could upon it. After all, it
was my own fault, for I should have known by this time that a
journalist has no right to make plans of his own.
"Then I'll think no more of it," said I with as much cheerfulness as I
could assume at so short a notice. "What was it that you wanted me to
do?"
"Well, it was just to interview that deevil of a man down at
Rotherfield."
"You don't mean Professor Challenger?" I cried.

"Aye, it's just him that I do mean. He ran young Alec Simpson of the
Courier a mile down the high road last week by the collar of his coat
and the slack of his breeches. You'll have read of it, likely, in the police
report. Our boys would as soon interview a loose alligator in the zoo.
But you could do it, I'm thinking--an old friend like you."
"Why," said I, greatly relieved, "this makes it all easy. It so happens
that it was to visit Professor Challenger at Rotherfield that I was asking
for leave of absence. The fact is, that it is the anniversary of our main
adventure on the plateau three years ago, and he has asked our whole
party down to his house to see him and celebrate the occasion."
"Capital!" cried McArdle, rubbing his hands and beaming through his
glasses. "Then you will be able to get his opeenions out of him. In any
other man I would say it was all moonshine, but the fellow has made
good once, and who knows but he may again!"
"Get what out of him?" I asked. "What has he been doing?"
"Haven't you seen his