Neither a boat in which to descend the river, nor a bullock-cart in which to reach its banks, were to be hired until the harvest was ready, so there was nothing for it but patience.
Neither Kirke nor Ralph felt themselves quite strong enough to be inclined for excessive haste. Kirke's illness, and Denham's sufferings in the jungle, made a little further rest still desirable before running the risk of more danger and new fatigues. They therefore remained quietly in the village contentedly enough, learning to know each other and like each other better every day.
They had long conversations, discussions of every subject which occurred to them. Each had undergone a training so different from the other that they never saw any matter in exactly the same light, and their opposite experiences were mutually valuable. Kirke's deep and dark knowledge of life was a warning to Denham; his own boyish lightness and gaiety were encouraging to his friend.
Meantime the rice ripened, was cut, and put up in stooks, ready for the threshing floor, in true scriptural fashion; for the manner of husking it by hand, as before described, was too slow and costly to be practised upon large quantities; neither was the paddy grained at all for mercantile purposes, as machinery was so much more convenient for the purpose.
Much rice, indeed, is brought to England in the form of paddy; and cleaned there by steam mills, of which there are many in Liverpool and elsewhere.
In the valley where Ralph and Kirke found themselves, it was a prosperous year. The people had been able to buy a sufficiency of excellent young plants, the weather had been favourable to their growth, the yield was good—the strangers had brought them luck.
But was it good or bad luck that the report of their riches should have gone forth over the land, and created envy in the hearts of some among their neighbours—idler, poorer, less fortunate than they?
But so it was. Down from the wild hillside came a party of four or five men from a neighbouring outlying village, armed with guns and pistols. They crept along, hidden by boulder and rock; crawling through gulley, and channels of dried-up streamlets, to reconnoitre; to judge of the wealth in the village, and the exact moment when it could be seized upon to the greatest advantage.
Dacoity, as it is called, is the great curse of the hill and jungle parts of Burma. The Burman hates hard work—it is so much easier to help himself to his neighbour's rice than to grow it for himself. If his crop fails, why should another man have more than he wants? Down he comes in the night, sets the village on fire, kills the men, carries off the maidens, and appropriates the property.