On the following day but one we were on board the prahu surrounded by fierce-looking Malays, every man being armed with his kris, and looking as bloodthirsty a lot as I thought I had ever seen. Our boat was towing behind as the men used long oars to get us out of the port, and then the great matting sails were hoisted, and we began to go swiftly through the surging sea.
“There, Nat,” said my uncle gleefully, “good-bye to civilisation, for we are fairly off. How do you feel now?”
“I was thinking, uncle, suppose that, now they have us safely on board, and away from all help—”
“They were suddenly to rise up, draw their knives, which are said to be poisoned, Nat.”
“Yes, uncle, and stab us.”
“Rob us,” he said laughing.
“And throw us overboard, uncle.”
“Ah! Nat; suppose they did. What would Uncle Joe say?”
“It would kill him, uncle,” I said, with tears in my eyes.
“And Aunt Sophy?” he said.