“That’s why he wants my uncle to go on expeditions then.”
“To be sure it is; and if he finds a mine or two for the old boy, he’ll make Mr Murray a rich man.”
Ned looked at him thoughtfully, while the boy chattered on.
“He gave me these silk things I’ve got on, and lots more. It pleases him to wear ’em. Make some of my old form chaps laugh if they saw me, I know; but they’re very comfortable when you’re used to them, and its safer to wear ’em when you go amongst strangers, too. He gave me this kris,” continued the lad, uncovering the hilt, which was wrapped in the waist-folds of his showy plaid sarong. “That’s the way to wear it. That means peace if its covered up. If you see a fellow with his kris in his waist uncovered, that means war, so cock your pistol and look out.”
As he spoke he drew out the weapon from his waistband and handed it to Ned.
“That handle’s ivory, and they do all that metal-work fine.”
“Why, all that working and ornament is gold.”
“To be sure it is. Pull it out: there’s more gold on the blade.”
Ned took hold of the handle and drew the little weapon from its light-coloured wood sheath to find that it was very broad just at the hilt, and rapidly curved down to a narrow, wavy or flame shaped blade, roughly sharp on both edges, and running down to a very fine point. It was not polished and clear like European steel, but dull, rough, and dead, full of a curious-looking grain, as if two or three different kinds of metal had been welded together, while up near the hilt there was a beautiful arabesque pattern in gold.
“Ugh!” said Ned, returning it to its sheath; “it’s a nasty-looking thing. Is it poisoned?”