“Why, Hilton, old man, are you there?”
“Chumbley! Here! Help!” cried Hilton. “Help, man, help!”
“Bring it here, then,” said Chumbley, coolly.
“I cannot. I’m a prisoner: seized by Malay scoundrels.”
“Same here, old man,” said Chumbley, puffing away at his cigar, the incandescent part of which was getting dangerously near his nose. “Pleasant finish to the Perowne fête, isn’t it?”
Here there was a fierce adjuration from the Malays in the other boat, which Hilton obeyed to the extent of speaking in a lower tone.
“What is to be done?” he said, “I’d come and help you, but I’m bound hand and foot.”
“So am I, old man,” replied Chumbley, coolly. “Tighter than you are, I’ll swear.”
“But what is to be done?” said Hilton again.
“Goodness knows. Nothing, I should say. Have a cigar?”