Tim nodded and went on, smoking, to make the round of the place, stopping to say a word or two to the other armed men in his easy good-tempered way, seasoning his remarks with a joke or two, while the lightning flickered in a bank of black clouds across the river.
By degrees he made his way back to the head-man, and began to talk confidentially.
“I say,” he said, “I suppose we shall all be big people now, when the rajah has married me young lady.”
The Malay laughed softly, contemptuously. “Oh yes,” he said. “Perhaps he’ll make you Muntrie or Tumongong.”
“Get out, making fun of a boy,” said Tim, good-humouredly. “Well, good-luck to you, I’ve nearly finished my pipe. I’m tired, and going in to sleep. Take care of us. Good-night.”
The Malay wished him good-night, and Tim turned to go, but stopped and pulled out his pouch.
“Have a bit o’ tibakky!” he said. “It’s the master’s. Some the rajah gave him.”
The Malay nodded eagerly, and Tim gave him two or three pipefuls.
“Here,” he said, “I’ve got a lot. The master don’t like it, and tells me to help myself. I’ll fetch a bit for the other boys.”
Tim lounged off, and at the end of a few minutes, with a small basket made of thin strips of bamboo, and still smoking, sauntered up to the head-man.