“Goooood—boyahs,” he said thickly. Then, drawing himself up, he stood fast, holding the scabbard of his sword in his left hand, threw his right over and grasped the hilt, and then in strict military fashion evidently, as he had been drilled by an instructor, he drew his sword, saluted, replaced the blade, faced to the right, marched a dozen paces; faced to the right again, and marched toward his bamboo and palm palace, the loose fit of his tunic and the bagginess of his trousers showing off to the worst advantage, till he was covered by his followers, who also marched after him mechanically, sword-bearers, men carrying a golden betel-box and golden spittoon, courtiers, and spearmen. At last all were either in or close up to the house, only the two Malay chiefs, who had fetched the strangers from the doctor’s bungalow, remaining behind.
These two came up to them smiling in the most friendly way, just as Murray said: “What about our boat and the men?”
“Oh, they will be all right,” replied Mr Braine.
“But the men? Am I to send them back?”
“No; his highness desires that they stay.”
Just then the chief who had been spoken of as the Tumongong—a kind of chief counsellor—made some remark to Mr Braine, who nodded.
“These gentlemen,” he said, “wish me to say that they hope we shall all be very good friends, and that they will see the rajah’s wishes carried out as to your comfort.”
“And our guns and things in the boat?”
The Tumongong spoke at once.
“You are not to make yourself uneasy. Everything will be right.”