“Don’t flinch—don’t speak. Tim, don’t you know me?”
“Masther Frank! Oh murther!”
The man staggered in his surprise as he uttered these words, but the quick Irish wit grasped the situation directly, and he said aloud in the Malay tongue something about its being a fine warm night, and then led the way into the dark room he called his pantry, though it was little more than a bamboo shed, and excitedly clasped the boy to his breast.
“Masther Frank, darlin’! Oh, Heaven be thanked for this!—Ah, ye wicked young rip, to frighten us all as ye did.”
“Hush, man, silence! Don’t, Tim. Why—my face is all wet.”
“Whisht! nonsense, boy. That’s nawthing. Only a dhrop o’ water. It’s so hot. But quick! An’ good-luck to ye for a cliver one. To desave us all like that!”
“Where is my father? He was not at home.”
“Faix no; he’s up-stairs. But where have ye been?”
“Don’t ask questions. Are they all right?”
“Oh yes, all right; and all wrong too. There’s me news, boy. The rajah’s going to marry Miss Amy, and we’re all prishners.”