“Send you help of course, somehow. But you will not be able to send a letter,” added the merchant thoughtfully. “Look here. If you are in trouble from sickness, or hurt by any wild animal, get some Malay fellow from one of the campongs to bring down a handkerchief—a white one. But if you are in peril from the people up yonder, send a red one, either your own or one of the boatmen’s. You will find it easy to get a red rag of some sort.”
“I see,” said Murray, smiling. “White, sickness; red, bloodshed.—I say Ned, hear all this?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Well; don’t you feel scared?”
“Horribly, uncle,” said the boy, coolly.
“Will you give up, and stop here in Dindong?”
The boy looked full in the speaker’s face, thrust his hands into the pockets of his brown linen trousers, and began to whistle softly.
“There, good-bye, Wilson. The sun will soon be overpowering, and I want to get on.”
“Well, you’ve got the tide to help you for the next three hours. Sorry you’re going. I’ll take great care of the specimens you send down. You can trust any of the boat-people—they know me so well. Any fellow coming down with rice or tin will bring a box or basket. God bless you both! Good-bye!”
There was a warm hand-shaking.