Then it seemed to the lad that it was only a few minutes since he lay down in the darkness.
But it could not have been, for all at once something in a great reed-bed cried “Quack, quack!”
And Stan knew that it was once more morning, with the sun shining brightly, and the boat gliding swiftly up the stream; the men being clever enough in their management, in spite of their stupid looks, and steering close inshore where the current was slack.
Chapter Eight.
“Come cuttee Head off.”
The night’s rest had chased away all the dull feelings that had troubled Stan, and he woke up bright, elastic, and eager for the adventures of the day. Look where he would on either shore, everything was attractive. The country was highly cultivated, and dotted with farms and dwellings belonging to what seemed to be a large and peaceable population.
But his wondering gaze was soon checked by Wing, who came out of the cabin smiling, with the announcement that “bleakfas’” was ready—an announcement as pleasant in the confines of Asia as in homely Britain; and, to the lad’s delight, he found everything quite as civilised and good.
Wing played the part of body-servant as ably as that of agent at the hong; and after the meal was over, and the lad had returned outside to watch the glorious panorama spread on either side of the river, his guide came deprecatingly behind him rubbing his hands.