“A drink of water!” cried the lady, smiling down upon us. “Do you think we see white men so often that we let them go as easily as that? Come up here at once.”
“We’re just sitting down to lunch,” said the man. “I had covers laid for you as soon as you hove in sight.”
“Thanks,” I answered, “we had lunch three hours ago.”
“Great Cæsar! Where?” gasped the Englishman.
“In a bamboo vil—”
“What! Native stuff?” he cried, while the lady shuddered, “With red ants, eh? Well, then, you’ve been famished for an hour and a half.”
We could not deny it, so we mounted to the veranda.
“Put your luggage in the corner,” said the Englishman. “Do you prefer lemonade or seltzer?”
I dropped the bedraggled knapsack on the top step and followed my companion inside. In our vagabond garb, covered from crown to toe with the dust of the route, the perspiration drawing fantastic arabesques in the grime on our cheeks, we felt strangely out of place in the daintily-furnished bungalow. But our hosts would not hear our excuses. When our thirst had been quenched, we followed the Englishman to the bathroom to plunge our heads and arms into great bowls of cold water and, greatly refreshed, took our places at the table.
The Burmese cook who slipped noiselessly in and out of the room was a magician, surely, else how could he have prepared in this outpost of civilization such a dinner as he served us—even without red ants? If conversation lagged, it was chiefly the Australian’s fault. His remarks were ragged and brief; for, as he admitted later in the day: “It’s so bloody long since I’ve talked to a white man that I was afraid of making a break every time I opened my mouth.”