The Australian halted at a tiny drug store, and, arousing the bare-legged clerk, purchased twenty grains of quinine. “For jungle fever,” he muttered as he tucked the package away in his helmet. That was our “outfit” for a journey that might last one month or six. In the knapsack were two cotton suits and a few ragged shirts. As for weapons, we had not even a penknife.
Just beyond the drug store we turned a corner and came face to face with Rice, sauntering along in the shade of the shops as if life were a perpetual pastime, a huge native cigar stuck in a corner of his frog’s mouth.
“We’re off, Chi!” cried James, hardly lessening his pace. “Want to go along?”
“Eh!” gasped our former partner, “Hit the trail? An’ the rains comin’ on? Not on yer tintype. Ye’re bughouse to quit this burg. The graft is swell, an’ I see yer finish in the jungle.”
“Well, so long,” we called, over our shoulders.
A mile from the Home we entered a small suburban station. The native policeman strutting up and down the platform eyed us curiously, but offered no interference. We purchased tickets to the first important town, and a few moments later were hurrying northward. James settled back in a corner of the compartment, and fell to singing in sotto voce:—
“On the road to Mandalay,
“Where the flying fishes play—”
About us lay low, rolling hills, deep green with tropical vegetation. Behind, scintillated the golden shaft of the Shwe Dagón pagoda, growing smaller and smaller, until the night, descending swiftly, blotted it out. We fell asleep, and, awakening as the train pulled into Pegu, took possession of two wicker chairs in the waiting-room. A babu, sent to rout us out, murmured an apology when he had noted the color of our skins, and stole quietly away.
Dawn found us already astir. A fruit-seller in the bazaars, given to early rising, served us breakfast and we were off; not, however, until the sun, peering boldly over the horizon, showed us the way, for we had no other guide to follow.