“A path! A path!” he cried. “And a telegraph wire!”
Certain that hunger and the sun had turned his brain, I tore my way through the thicket that separated us. He was not mad. A path there was, narrow and steep: and overhead a sagging telegraph wire, running from tree to tree.
After following it for about a half-hour we came to a little plain crossed by a swift stream, in which swam a covey of snow-white ducks. On the western bank stood a weather-beaten bungalow. Above it the telegraph wire disappeared. We drank from the river until we were thirsty no more, and then mounted the narrow steps and shouted to attract attention. There was no answer. We pushed open the door and entered. The room was about eight feet square and entirely unfurnished. In one corner hung an unpainted telephone instrument. It was home-made and very crude. A spider had spun his web across the mouth of the receiver, and there were no signs that anyone had ever lived in the hut.
“There is nothing worth while here,” said James. “Let’s swim the creek.”
On the opposite bank was a bamboo rest house, the floor of which was raised some feet above the damp ground. Back of it, among the trees, stood a cluster of seven huts. We went to all of them, trying to buy food, but returned to the rest house with nothing but the information that the village was called Kathái Ywá. Nine freight-carriers had arrived. Among them were several we had seen the evening before. They had, perhaps, some secret hatred against white men; for they not only refused to sell us rice, but scowled and snarled when we drew near them. The day was not yet done. We should have pushed on had not James fallen victim to a burning jungle fever.
While there was plenty of water at hand, our hunger became unbearable. For a time we kept ourselves cheerful by thinking that perhaps the next carrier who wandered into the place would be more friendly. But each new arrival was more stupid and surly than the others. The sun touched the western tree-tops. James lay on his back, red-eyed with fever. Eat we must, if we were to have strength to go on in the morning. I made the round of the huts a second time, hoping to bully the inhabitants into selling me food. The people rose in a mass and swarmed upon me. The men carried long, overgrown knives; the women, clubs. I returned hastily to the rest house.
The sight of the telephone wire awakened within me the senseless notion that I might call for help from some neighboring village. I left my shoes and trousers in charge of the Australian, and dashed through the stream and into the government bungalow. At the first call I “got” someone. Who or where he was I could not guess. I bawled into the receiver English, French, German, and all the Hindustanee I could think of. When I paused for breath the unknown subscriber had “rung off.” I jangled the bell and shook and pounded the instrument for five minutes. A glassy-eyed lizard ran out along the wire and stared down upon me. His mate in the grassy roof above screeched mockingly. Then another voice sounded faintly in my ear.
“Hello!” I shouted. “Who’s this? We want to eat. D’you speak English? Do sahib hai, Kathái Ywá. Send us some—”
A flood of meaningless jabber interrupted me. I had rung up a Burman; but he was no babu.
“English!” I shrieked. “Anyone there that speaks English? We’re sahibs! Hello! Hello, I say! Hello—”