The sun was still high when we reached a handsome large bungalow set in the center of a clearing on the bank of the Menam, with a half circle of huts roundabout and at some distance from it. The bungalow was the home of the “jungle king,” as he was called; his servants lived in the huts about it.
We had heard of the king at breakfast that morning. The Dane had told us of a white man from Sweden who was manager for a lumber company dealing in teak forests, and that he was called the king on account of the style in which he lived.
We found the royal person sitting on the veranda of his palace, gazing peacefully out across the clearing. He was a white man who must have weighed nearly a quarter ton. The servants who moved about near him looked like manikins in his presence. We stopped at the foot of the veranda and asked for a drink of water. He looked at us without a sign of surprise, and with a calm wave of his hand ordered a servant to bring it. One would have thought white men passed his palace every hour. He watched us silently as we drank, asked from us where we came and where we were going, and that was all. He was not enough interested in our doings to ask more.
“I can let you stay in one of my bungalows,” he said, “if you have planned on stopping here.”
We were of half a mind to push on. It was an hour before sunset, and, to tell the truth, we were a bit disappointed at his coolness of manner. In the end we swallowed our pride and thanked him for the offer. It was fortunate for us that we did so.
The “king” waved a hand once more, and a servant in a scarlet uniform stepped forth and led us to one of the half circle of bungalows. Five servants were sent to look after our wants. They put water for us in two bath-tubs, and stood ready with crash towels to rub us down. Our skins were so painfully sunburned and scratched, however, that we had to do without that service. When we had changed our garments, a laundryman took charge of those we had worn. By this time a servant had brought a phonograph from the palace and set it in action. How we did enjoy it! For weeks we had heard no music save the shrill croaking of lizards.
Then came our evening feast. For days afterward James could not speak of that without a trembling of his voice. It made the supper of the night before seem like a penny lunch in comparison.
We had just settled down in our bungalow to talk matters over, when a sudden hubbub burst forth. I dashed out upon the veranda. Around the palace fluttered half the people of the place, squawking like excited hens; and the others were tumbling out of their bungalows in their hurry to join the crowd.
The palace was afire. From the back of the building a mass of black smoke wavered upward in the evening breeze. When we had pushed our way through the frightened crowd, a slim blaze was licking at a corner of the back veranda. It was not hard to guess how it had started. At the foot of a bamboo post lay a sputtering kettle over a heap of burning sticks. Around it the natives were screaming, pushing, tumbling over one another, doing everything except putting out the fire. A dozen of them carried buckets. Twenty yards away was a stream. But they stood or rushed about helplessly waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
James snatched a bucket and ran for the creek. I caught up the kettle and dumped the half-boiled rice on the flame. The Australian’s first bucketful lowered the blaze somewhat, and after that it took us only a moment to put it out entirely. When the last spark had disappeared a native arrived with water from the stream. Behind him stretched a long line of servants with overflowing buckets. They fought with each other in their eagerness to flood the blackened corner of the veranda. Those who could not reach it dashed their water on the surrounding crowd and the real firemen; then ran for more. We were obliged to pull the buckets out of their hands to save ourselves from drowning.