This was duly interpreted, a fresh answer made, and permission given, the naga being kept close alongside as they all rowed for what proved to be quite a respectable landing-place, that is to say, a roughly-made jetty formed by driving bamboos into the sand and mud.
“Ask him if there are not some English people here,” said Murray to Hamet.
“No, uncle, don’t. Look there, in front of those trees, there’s an Englishman with a white umbrella, and a lady with a parasol. Oh, I say, what a shame; she’s using an opera-glass—and you said we were coming up into quite a savage place.”
“So I did, Ned,” said his uncle, rubbing his ear; “but I can’t help it. Civilisation crops up everywhere now, and they say you can’t get away from cotton prints and Staffordshire pottery without running up against Sheffield knives.”
“But it is so disappointing. I say, look, and there’s another lady, and they’re going on to that jetty to see us come in. There’ll be a steamboat call next, and I daresay there’s a railway station somewhere among the trees.”
“Never mind, Ned,” said Murray, with a comical look of chagrin in his countenance. “We’ll only buy what we can and be off again directly. I certainly didn’t expect this. Why, there’s another Englishman,” he said, more loudly than he had intended, for they were close up to the jetty now, and the man of whom he had spoken, a red-faced youngish fellow in flannel shirt and trousers and a straw hat, said loudly:
“Not a bad shot, sor. Make it Oirish, and ye’ll be right.”
“I beg your pardon,” cried Murray, hastily raising his hat, and the salute was returned. “What place is this?”
“Dirthy Bucket, sor. Campong Bukit they call it. Are ye from home lately?”
“From England? Yes.”