Sure enough the party of Malays, ten strong, who acted as their guard in the palm-thatched house, and attended to every want instantly, did sit in and below the veranda in the sun chewing betel, with their eyes half-closed, till, to use Ned’s words, it nearly drove him mad.
Frank tried persuasion, bribery, threats, and then force, to get out if only for a walk; but in a patient good-humoured way the chief and his followers refused to let them pass even out on to the veranda; and all the boys knew at last of their position, as the sun went down, was that which they had learned at sunrise: they were in a house somewhere deep in the jungle, shut in by trees.
“Can’t we get away when it’s dark?” said Ned.
“Get away where?” cried Frank, ill-humouredly. “You ought to know by this time that you can’t get through the jungle without men to chop for you.”
“But there must be a path by which they brought us.”
“Yes; one leading down to the river, where you could get no farther for want of a boat, and trust ’em, they’ll watch that night and day. Fellows who know they’ll have a kris stuck into them, and be pitched into the river if they let a prisoner escape, look out pretty sharp.”
It was rapidly growing dark when Frank, who had tried lying down, sitting cross-legged, standing up, walking about, and lying on his chest, with his elbows on the bamboo flooring and his chin in his hands, suddenly exclaimed: “Have some more durian?”
“No, thank you.”
“Some mangosteens?”
“No, I’ve had enough.”