How Tom Long tried the Durian.
A little bustle on deck, the rattling of chains, the splash of an anchor, and Her Majesty’s ship “Startler”—well manned, and armed with guns that could send shot and shell crashing through the town on the river’s right bank—swinging to her moorings; for she had reached her destination—the campong, or village, of Sultan Hamet, the native Malay potentate, who was under British protection, and who sought our aid to rule his land beneficially, after our manners and customs, and who now professed the most ardent friendship for those who were ready to do their duty; though the trust they felt in the Malays was not untempered by suspicion—in some cases, perhaps, with fear.
It was a very busy time for all, and after the “Startler” had been made what Dick the sailor called snug—that is to say, firmly anchored head to stream, for they were now far above the reach of the tide—a strong party of the blue-jackets were landed upon the pleasantly umbrageous island, along with the soldiers; for this island was to be the site of the residency, and it proved to have four good-sized buildings amidst the trees, which had been roughly prepared by Sultan Hamet’s orders.
Doctor Bolter was almost the first man to land, and for a long time he was fussily perspiring about, as he abused the sanitary arrangements of the place to every man he met, pausing last of all to stand mopping his face in front of Bob Roberts and Tom Long.
“Pretty sort of a wilderness to bring us to, young gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know what to start at next. The place will be a very hot-bed of fever, and we shall all be swept away.”
“What do you say to this for a neat spot, doctor?” said Bob Roberts.
“Neat spot? what for?”
“Burying ground.”
“Burying ground? What do you mean, sir?”
“To bury us all decently, doctor,” said Bob, grinning. “And I say, doctor, who’s to bury the last man?”