“Who’s that?” cried Mr Braine, sharply.
“Only me, sor. Is the master there? Oh, there you are, sor. I wint after him, sor, for he made me a bit mad shticking at me with his kris thing.”
“Are you wounded?”
“Only just a bit of a prick, sor. I’ve put my hankychy round it. In me arm here. It’s jist nawthing.”
“But who was it? What does it mean?” said the doctor, hastily examining the man’s arm, while Mr Braine held the light.
“Who was it, sor? Well, I hardly know. It was so dark, but if I was to guess by the face of the man, I should say it was Mr Tumongong—an’ what a name for a gintleman!—and what does it mane? Well, sor, I was having just a little whiff out of me bamboo-pipe, and takking a look round, or a feel round, it was so dark, before going to bed, when I heard a bit of a rustle, and I backed under the house to get away, for I thought it was a tiger; but it was a man, and he kept on coming nearer till he was right underneath here, and close to where we stand, and hiff—!”
“Did I hurt you?” said the doctor, who was binding Tim’s wound.
“Yes, sor, thank ye, sor. It did rather, but I don’t mind. Well, sor, he was listening to you gintlemen up-stairs; and as I thought it moighty ondacent, I laid howld of him, and nipped him, and we scuffled a bit, and then he pricked me wid his kris, and I hit him two or three cracks wid me fist, for I had no stick. Then he went off in the dark, and I afther him; but there wasn’t a chance of catching him, for he went through the trees like a sarpent, and of course, sor, the man who runs has a better chance than the man who runs afther him.”
“Did you see where he made for?” said the doctor.
“And is it see on a night like this, sor?”