Four days in the jungle had weakened the Australian’s command over his temper. Or was his speech a ruse? If so, it succeeded in its object. A flush mounted to the swarthy cheek of the native; he opened and closed his mouth several times as if he had received a heavy blow in the ribs, and spoke, slowly and distinctly:—
“I am not damn snake. I have been listening.”
“Of course!” bellowed James, “I repeat, you are a sneak.”
“Don’t!” shuddered the babu, “Don’t name me damn snake. If they know you talk me so I fall in my caste.”
“Well, why didn’t you answer when I spoke to you?” I demanded.
“I was listening to find out what you were wishing,” stammered the Burman.
“You half-baked Hindu!” shouted James. “You heard us say a dozen times we wanted something to eat.”
“But,” pleaded the babu, “this is a very jungly place and we have not proper food for Europeans.”
“Proper be blowed!” shrieked the Australian. “Who’s talking about European food? If there’s anything to eat around here trot it out. If we haven’t got money we can pay for it. Here’s a good suit of clothes—” he caught up the knapsack and tumbled his “swag” out on the floor.
“There’s only native food,” objected the Burman. “White men cannot—”