“All right, sir.”
They had been creeping along for the most part on all fours for the past hour since starting, so as to avoid friends and enemies, for they had been expecting at any moment to hear a challenge from one of their own outposts or receive a thrust from a Malay spear. But so far success had attended them, and Peter had just caught hold of his officer’s arm to whisper that he could smell the river, but he said instead:
“’Ware hawk, Mister Archie!”
And the next moment there was a rush of feet, a rough-and-tumble scuffle, the sound of blows, and Archie was down on his knees, panting and trying hard to get his breath silently so that he should not be heard.
“It’s all over,” he thought, “unless I can do it myself. Poor old Pete! I wonder where he is.”
He crouched a little lower as he heard the rustling of bushes a short distance away, and he did not stir till the sounds died out, when, guessing more than knowing where the river was, he made a slight movement, and felt himself seized by the throat.
“You stir, and—”
“That you, Pete?”
“Mister Archie! My! You have done me good! Let’s lie down, put our heads together, and whisper. There were three of them, I think, and one may have stopped back.”
“It was our fellows, wasn’t it?”