CHAPTER XIII
THE HILL PEOPLE
Occasionally one passes a stranger on the street whose face bears the unmistakable imprint of recent pain, a patient line of mouth and haunting glow of eyes that have looked close into the eternal shadows. Terry bore this look.
He unbuckled the Major's pack straps and relieving him of the load led him into the shack he occupied. It was a small hut, roofed and sided with grass woven into a bamboo lattice work; stilted six feet above the ground it trembled under the Major's heavy tread. A woven bamboo partition divided it into two small halves, and each room was bare save for a slatted cot that served as chair by day and couch by night. The breeze blew up through the strips of bamboo flooring.
Exhausted the Major sank down upon the hard cot but rose to sitting posture to study Terry with bloodshot eyes.
"Terry," he said, "you're looking a little—what the folks back home call 'peaked'."
Terry's face was a little haggard, his body a little slimmer, the steady gray eyes were deeper set.
"Oh, I'm all right." He seated himself on the ledge of the window near the Major. "You had a tight go of it last night. Did you hear the little agong ring?"