“And quite right too,” exclaimed Chumbley. “I say, how hungry I do feel!”
These last remarks were elicited by the fact that the tall Malay had returned, ushering in half a dozen more, who quickly spread a white tablecloth in the English fashion; and to the surprise of the prisoners they were served with a capital breakfast, which included, among native luxuries, coffee, very good claret, roast and curried chickens, and fairly-made bread.
“Look here,” said Chumbley, who was staring ravenously at the preparations, “if you have any suspicions about the food being poisoned, don’t say a word about it, old man, until I have fed.”
“Oh, absurd!” replied Hilton. “Why should it be poisoned?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know!” exclaimed Chumbley. “Only let us leave all other discussion till we have discussed our breakfast;” and seating himself in the Malay fashion upon the floor, he at once set an example to his companion, that Hilton was fain to follow.
“As that fellow said somewhere, ‘a child might play with me now,’” sighed Chumbley, and wiping his lips, in token of having finished, he leaned back against the divan. “Done?”
“Yes,” said Hilton, gloomily, “I have done.”
“I wish you had done being glumpy,” said Chumbley. “Why, this is quite a pleasant change. I say, executioner,” he cried, in the Malay tongue, “I have emptied my case. Can we have some cigars?”
The tall Malay, who had been standing with folded arms, looking like a swarthy statue, bowed respectfully, and left the room, the men coming in directly to remove the remains of the breakfast; while their leader returned at the end of a few minutes with a box of cigars, a jar of tobacco, and a couple of large pipes, one of which, a kind of hookah, Chumbley at once appropriated, filled, and began to smoke.
“I say, Hilton, old man, failing the costume—which wants brushing, by the way—I feel quite the Rajah. Take it easy, lad. ’Tisn’t half bad for a change.”