Chapter Forty Seven.
How Bob Roberts burned the Prahu.
The victory was dearly bought; for now that the breathless excitement was over, and there was time to make an examination, it was found that fully half the crew had injuries, more or less serious, the men, though, bearing their sufferings with the greatest fortitude as their two officers, for want of a doctor, bound up the wounds.
It almost seemed as if those who had most exposed themselves had come off best; for neither Lieutenant Johnson, Bob Roberts, Ali, nor Adam Gray, who had been brave even to recklessness, had received a scratch.
“I have only one regret about you, Gray,” said Lieutenant Johnson, shaking his hand warmly.
“May I ask what that is, sir?” replied Gray.
“Yes, that you are not a sailor; that is all,” said the lieutenant, smiling. “I shall not forget this affair. I believe you twice over saved my life.”
“And you, too, friend Ali,” continued the lieutenant, laying his hand upon the young chief’s shoulder. “I have often called the Malays a set of treacherous wretches, but I find that there are Malays and Malays. Sir, I hope some day that you may rise to power, as in you England will always have a trusty ally.”
Ali bowed gravely, and his eyes betokened the pleasure he felt as he thought of the possibility of his raising the people of this land to something better than the slothful, betel-chewing, piratical race they were.