“Fever, and nothing but durians to eat for a fortnight.”
While the two of them were talking, I undid one of the packs and got out a bottle of whisky.
“If you’ve lived on durians for a fortnight, what about a drop of this?”
Our new friend stared at the bottle, then smiled a slow and beautiful smile. “This saves my life,” he said.
Maguire decided for us. I did not hear what the decision was, and did not trouble to find out. I was far from sure that I should like the man, but I was quite sure that his was the only word worth having in that place. One only had to look at him. I should go where he led. He and his rifle started off with decision enough, quickening our pace, somehow giving more activity to the Malays and inspiring my despondent companion with an ardor from Heaven knows what source. I put away my chart. We forded unknown rivers continually, waded through swamps, climbed hills, and swung down through the jungle on the other side; and all at a pace and without a rest which would have caused some of us to complain bitterly a few hours before. Our leader never looked back and never stopped. He expected us to manage difficulties in his own way. If a man with fever, who had starved for a fortnight, could go like that on a mouthful of whisky, I wondered what he could do when he was at his best.
He shot a wild pig, and got us to a small hut at last, where, with the right kind of fire, which had been impossible in the dank forest, we had what must have been the most enjoyable dinner ever spread on a floor. That hut was on the slope of a clearing, in a narrow valley, and below us a river was turbulent over rocks with the first impulse of the rains. We sat on a log, he and I, looking across and yawning, and watching vast storm clouds gather about the sunset. A respect, at least, began to form for that strange man, perhaps because he gave a comfortable feeling of security where there had been none before. His speech was ironical, yet in such short, quick sentences that the unwary might have thought the man was a simpleton. For a very brief time I myself thought so, till I got from him a shaft which was no accident, but was aimed to hit me where I felt it. But Maguire did not smile, though I laughed aloud. He had my bearings before I had got his. Did he know London? He smiled.
“You can keep your great cities,” he said. He was whittling a stick, and held it away from him while he shut one eye to scrutinize its straightness. “One day in Singapore, when I have to go, is enough for me,” he remarked. “It’s better here.”
“Why, what’s the matter with the cities? I’ve been wishing lately I was back in one.”
“I guess you have been. You would. But I never do. This is all right for me. I know what things are here.”