“You, Bob,” said Tom Long, coolly. “It would let out a little of your confounded impudence.”
“Thanky,” said Bob, as he proceeded to examine the weapon with the greatest interest, from its wooden sheath, with a clumsy widened portion by the hilt, to the hilt itself, which, to European eyes, strongly resembled the awkwardly formed hook of an umbrella or walking-stick, and seemed a clumsy handle by which to wield the kris.
“Pull it out,” said Tom Long, eagerly; and Bob drew it, to show a dull ragged-looking two-edged blade, and of a wavy form. It was about fifteen inches long, and beginning about three inches wide, rapidly narrowed down to less than one inch, and finished in a sharp point.
“It’s a miserable-looking little tool,” said Bob.
“Good as a middy’s dirk,” said Tom Long, laughing.
“I don’t know so much about that,” said Bob, making a stab at nothing with the kris. “I say, old chap, this is poisoned, isn’t it?”
“No, sahib,” said the Kling, displaying his white teeth.
“But the Malay krises are poisoned,” said Bob. “Is his?”
He nodded in the direction of the Malay, who was trying to understand what was said.
“No, sahib, no poison. What for poison kris?”