Ali’s dark eyes were raised inquiringly to the speaker’s face, but seeing that this was not meant sarcastically, he said drily,—“No; I shall arrange to be as far away from the sultan’s elephant as I can.”
Bob looked at him keenly.
“What, isn’t he fond of tigers?” he said sharply.
“My father is the sultan’s officer, and greatly in his confidence,” said the young man quietly. “I don’t think the sultan is very fond of hunting, though.”
Just at this moment, unseen, of course, by the three young men, Dullah was whispering to a rough-looking, half-naked Malay, into whose hands he placed a little roll of paper, which the man secured in the fold of his sarong, dropped into a sampan, and then hastily paddled to the mainland, where he plunged into the wood and disappeared.
Meanwhile the three friends sat chatting, and Ali expressed his sorrow about the adventure the two young Englishmen had had with the slave girls.
“Where are they now?” he quietly asked.
“Oh, Miss Linton and her cousin have quite adopted them,” said Bob. “But surely you don’t think we did wrong.”
“Speaking as the son of the Tumongong, I say yes,” replied Ali; “but as one who has imbibed English notions and ideas, I am bound to say that what you did only makes me feel more thoroughly how it is time we had a complete revolution in Parang.”
“I say,” said Bob, “you’ll get stuck-up for high treason, young fellow, if you talk about revolution.”