"Oh, how about your clothes?"
"Leave them on the jetty. I always send the cook round for them in the morning."
I did not answer; I recognised that I was again among a strange people. We were now threading our way among the coolies' huts and shanties towards the beach. The moon was shining brightly, thus enabling us to jump over several forms which were huddled up in various positions across our path without disturbing them.
"These people would stick a knife in a man for his bootlaces," my companion remarked; "but luckily they are always too drunk to stand."
"But if you treated them fairly might there not be better results?"
"Look here, my lad, you've still got some of the old country notions about you. You can't treat the Malays as you do white men. They do not understand what gratitude means. Great Southern Cross! don't you know the history of this coast? Haven't you heard of poor Woods? He was going to reform everything. Gave the beggars a share of the profits, and wages besides. First thing we knew was when his Chinese cook rushed into Roderick's one night and told some of us that Woods's crew had mutinied because of their tinned dog being off colour—as if it ever was anything else."
"And what was the result?"
"Oh, they killed Woods and threw his body into the sea, and then sailed for Java. The cook jumped overboard and swam ashore, and that's how we knew. The Dutchmen chased them up and sent them back from Surabaya in chains, and we hung them."
"These men were Malays?"