Smidt had obtained a note from one of the Chinese merchants at Sarawak, with whom his employers did business, to the head of the Kunsi—the Gold-diggers’ Union, as we should say. That personage invited him to use his house. Unwillingly did Ahtan accompany his master. He bowed before the Kunsi chief, and made a long discourse with downcast eyes and folded hands. The chief answered shortly and motioned him to go about his business.
If Smidt made inquiries about that wonderful organisation, the Kunsi of the gold-diggers at Bau, so soon to be crushed in a mad revolt, assuredly he found matter to interest him. The parent society in Sambas has annals dating back two hundred years, and its system was imported, they say, from China without alteration. There is no reason to doubt the statement. Anyhow, we find among these immigrants, two centuries ago, a perfected system of trade union, benefit clubs, life assurance, co-operative stores, and provision for old age, such as British working-men may contemplate with puzzled and envious despair at the present day. Every detail is so well adjusted—by the experience of ages—that disputes scarcely ever arise; when they do the Council gives judgment, and no one questions its decision. The earnings of the whole body are stored in the Treasury. There is a general meeting once a fortnight, when the accounts are audited in public, and each member receives his share as per scale, subject to the deduction for veterans’ past work, widows and orphans, and also for the goods he has bought at the co-operative store. But I must not linger on this fascinating theme.
Next day Smidt started to explore the famous hill with Ahtan, who carried the tambok—the luncheon basket. He found Cypripeds beyond counting and noted certain spots to be re-visited. Then he chose a shady nook for lunch, and Ahtan lit a fire.
It was beneath a wall of limestone, a tangle of foliage above, where the sunlight struck it, but clothed only in moss and ferns and bare roots in the shade below. There was wind upon the hill as usual, and Ahtan made his fire in a cleft.
Smith sat on a log opposite, smoking, after the meal. He remembered afterwards that Ahtan was eager to start, packing his utensils hastily, and predicting ‘muchee rain by’m bye minute.’ But no signs of change were visible. Presently the Chinaman put a quantity of green leaves upon the fire. Such a volume of smoke arose as called Smidt’s attention.
It was in a cleft, and he sat opposite, as has been said. The blaze had scorched that drapery of ferns. The moss just above had peeled off in flakes, taken fire mostly and dropped. So in places the rock stood bare. Looking in that direction now, Smidt observed a yellow gleam, hidden by smoke for a moment, then reappearing more distinctly. It was worth investigation. He rose leisurely and crossed the little space. Ahtan was standing on one side. As he scattered the fire with his foot, looking for that yellow gleam the while, a tremendous blow felled him. He was dimly conscious of another before his senses fled.
Not till sunset did Smidt feel strong enough to descend the hill; before starting he looked for the ‘yellow gleam’—it had vanished, and in place of it was a hole. Bloodstained and tottering he regained the public path. Diggers returning from their work laughed heartily at the spectacle, but perhaps they meant no harm. Chinamen must not be judged by the laws that apply to other mortals. At least they warned the chief, who sent two stalwart members of the Kunsi to assist his guest. They also found the situation vastly amusing, but they were kind enough.
The chief had a bottle of skimpin ready. He set a slave to wash Smidt’s head, and clothed him in a snowy bajo. No questions did he ask. Smidt told his short story, and begged him to pursue the malefactor.
‘No good, sir,’ said the chief. ‘I policeman here—I know. Where you think Ahtan?’
‘In the jungle, I suppose, making for Kuching with the great nugget he picked out of the rock. Send to warn the Tuan magistrate, at least.’