Five minutes after, the two lads were off toward the bank of the river near where the rajah’s stockade was situated—a strongly-palisaded place commanding the river, and within which four of the light brass guns known as lelahs were mounted. Mere popguns in the eyes of a naval officer, but big enough, to awe people who traded up and down the river in boats, and whose one or two pound balls or handfuls of rough shot and rugged scraps of iron and nails were awkward enemies for the slight timbers of a good-sized prahu.
“There will not be any danger for the boys, eh?” said Murray, looking up at where Mr Braine stood thoughtfully smoking his cigar.
“Oh no; they will have quite a little party of active men with them, ready to despatch the brute with their spears if they are lucky enough to catch him; but that is very doubtful.”
He relapsed into silence, and Murray went on busily with his work, for he had had a successful shooting trip on the previous afternoon, and was trying to make up for it before his specimens decayed, as they did rapidly in that hot climate. He was so intent upon his task as he sat at the rough bamboo work-table he had rigged up, that for a time he forgot the presence of his silent visitor, till, looking up suddenly he saw that Mr Braine was gazing thoughtfully before him in a rapt and dreamy way.
“Anything the matter?” he said.
Mr Braine started, looked at his cigar, which was out, and proceeded to relight it.
“No—yes,” he said slowly; “I was thinking.”
“What about? No, no. I beg pardon. Like my impudence to ask you.”
“No. It is quite right,” said Mr Braine, slowly, and with his brow knit. “You are one of us now, and in a little knot of English people situated as we are, there ought to be full confidence and good-fellowship so that we could help each other in distress.”
“Yes, of course,” said Murray, laying down his work. “But, my dear fellow, don’t be so mysterious. You are in trouble. What is wrong?”