“Thank God!” muttered the doctor, and he pressed his friend’s hand before getting cigars and matches, and they stood where those in the garden could see, striking a match, and holding it between them as they lit their cigars—great coarsely-made ones of the native tobacco.
“Now, Tim, where?” said Mr Braine.
“In my room, shure, sor.”
“Sit down there and smoke,” said Mr Braine, in a low tone. “Take both cigars, man, and keep them alight, changing your position as you change the cigars.”
“And desave the haythens. Yes, sor, I undherstand,” said Tim, taking the cigars as the gentlemen prepared to descend, “and a moighty plisant way of desaving ’em,” he muttered to himself, as he began smoking away; while the next minute Frank was in his father’s arms, hurriedly telling him of his adventures.
“And when we heard the naga coming up the river before daybreak, we pulled in under the trees and bushes, just below the stockade,” he said in conclusion, “and there we’ve been all day, not daring to stir, and even when it was dark we were afraid to move, till I thought of putting a sarong over my head, and coming like this. I passed lots, and no one spoke to me.”
“And the boat?”
“Safe under the trees with Ned and Hamet.”
“Is it big enough to hold us all?” said Mr Braine.
“Plenty.”