Murray frowned a little; and, amused by his uncle being deceived as he had himself been, Ned said quietly, “he has come to breakfast with us, uncle.”
“It is very kind of him,” said Murray, coldly; “but he might have waited till he was asked.”
“And then you wouldn’t have asked me. I say, you; he thinks like you did, that I’m a nigger.”
“Well,” said Murray, quickly, “are you not a Malay, in spite of your perfect English?”
“Of course not, sir; I’m Frank Braine.”
“My dear sir, I beg your pardon,” cried Murray. “You should have told me, Ned. Come in, my lads, I’m getting sharp-set;” and directly after, they were seated, eastern fashion, cross-legged on the mat, which was spread with Malay luxuries, prominent among which was some excellent coffee, and a hearty meal was made, with the Resident’s son as much at home as if he had been a very old friend; and hardly was it ended, when Mr Braine appeared.
“Ah, Frank,” he said, smiling; “not long making yourself at home, I see. The boat’s ready, Mr Murray,” he continued, “and plenty of provisions on board. I daresay you will get some new birds and insects on your way, and the rajah hopes you will make some discovery up in the hills.”
“He seems reasonable,” said Murray, laughing. “What would he like first—a gold-mine?”
“Oh, you must humour him, and then you will have plenty of opportunity for your own work. Will you want an interpreter beside your own man?”
“No,” said Frank, quietly. “I’m going with them, father.”