Next day at sunrise we are off.
After golden hours of placid slipping down the shining waterway we pull up at about five for the night, and having finished tea we four sally forth for a walk, little dreaming what is going to happen.
Joyce's mother is a most attractive woman. She is well read, very keenly alive, and has travelled a great deal. She and I have much in common, and, I must say, as I help her across the paddy fields I forget all about you two.
It is not until we turn to go home that I miss you.
"They can't be far," I say reassuringly, and give a loud cooee, but there is no response.
"They can't possibly come to harm here," I say. "There is nothing to hurt them," and I shout again.
"Perhaps they have circled round and gone back to the ship another way," Joyce's mother suggests, and we turn. Darkness falls very quickly here, and it is dark before we get on board, but in answer to our anxious questions we find no one has seen anything of you.
Joyce's mother is very brave and sensible, but I can see that her heart is torn with anxiety. I try to comfort her by telling her that you are as good as a man, and have been brought up to look after yourself, but it makes little difference. She agrees, however, to remain on the steamer while the captain and I and a couple of Lascars with lanterns go forth again.
What a night we have of it! We wander far and wide, calling and waving the lights with no result, and when we come back in the grey dawn, with troubled hearts, there is still no news.
"Someone has taken them in," says the captain. "They're queer fellows, these Burmans; they daren't go out at nights for fear of spooks. You'll see they'll bring them safely back in the morning."