“Kin-kow? Kin-kow?” cried the sergeant, with an interrogatory gesture.
We nodded sadly. He chuckled to himself and waved his arms about him, as if to say that there was food everywhere. We shrugged our shoulders skeptically. He laughed like a man prepared to prove his point and addressed himself to the squad. Two of the soldiers picked up cudgels, and, returning along the path to a half-rotten log, began to move back and forth on opposite sides of it, striking it sharp blows here and there. They came back with a half-dozen lizards, those great, green reptiles that sing their “she-kak!” all night long in the thatch of Indian bungalows. Meanwhile two others of the squad were kneeling at the edge of a mudhole. From time to time they plunged their bare arms into it, drawing out frogs and dropping them, still alive, into a joint of bamboo. The sergeant took a dah and cut down a small tree at the edge of the jungle. A servant dug some reddish-brown roots on the opposite bank of the stream, while his mate started a fire by rubbing two sticks together.
In a few minutes all were reassembled beside us. The lizards were skinned, cut up with lumps of red currie in an iron pot, and set to boiling. A servant drew out the frogs one by one, struck them on the head with a stick, and tossed them to his companion. The latter rolled them up inside mud balls and threw them into the fire. The sergeant split open his tree, extracted a pith some four inches in diameter, cut it into slices, toasted them on the point of his dah, and tossed them onto a large leaf spread out at our feet. The reddish roots were beaten to a pulp on the face of the rock and sprinkled over the toasted slices. Rice was boiled, the soldiers, grinning knowingly, took up their refrain of “kin-kow! kin-kow!” and the meal began. Before it was finished, both the jungle and its inhabitants had risen several degrees in our estimation. Extracted from their shell of mud, the frogs were found to be baked into brown balls, and tasted not unlike fried fish. The toasted pith resembled pickled beets. But best of all was the lizard currie. James and I ate more than our share, and offered mutual condolence that the pair sent to pound the old tree trunk had not remained longer at their task.
We went on with the soldiers, halting soon after dark at the bank of the largest stream we had yet encountered. There was no village in the vicinity, but the government had erected a military rest-house on the bank. In this we spent the night with the troopers, after partaking of a frog and lizard supper.
Beyond, the territory was less mountainous and the path well-marked; but whatever advantage we gained thereby was offset by another difficulty. The river beside which we had left the soldiers was deep and swift, and wound back and forth across our course with a regularity that was disheartening. In the first few morning hours we swam it no less than fourteen times. It was the ninth crossing that we had cause longest to remember. Reaching the narrow, sandy bank a bit before my companion, I stripped, and, rolling my clothing up in the oilcloth, tied the bundle to my head, and plunged in. James began to disrobe as I reached the opposite shore. Without removing his ragged shirt, or his helmet, he fastened on his “swag” as I had done, and struck out. Being an excellent swimmer he advanced with long, clean strokes. Unfortunately he did not take care to keep his head pointed up-stream. The powerful current caught him suddenly broadside, dragged him under, and dashed him against a submerged snag. He righted himself quickly, but in that brief struggle lost both his bundle and his helmet, and in an effort to save both caught only the topee. The “swag” raced down stream. I sprang to my feet and dashed along the sandy shore in hot pursuit. The stream was far swifter than I. The tangled undergrowth brought me to a sudden halt, and the Australian’s worldly possessions were swallowed up in the jungle.
I returned to find him sitting disconsolately on the bank. Luckily there was but one tecal in his bundle, but with it had gone his shoes, trousers, jacket, the odds and ends he had picked up on his travels, his military and citizenship papers, the pocket compass, and even that bottle of “Superior Currie Dressing”; in short, everything he possessed except a helmet and a tattered shirt.
But James was not a man to be long cast down by minor misfortunes. He tied the shirt about his loins and we proceeded. Relieved of his burden, he marched more easily and crossed the streams with far less difficulty than I. But in less than an hour his shoulders, back, and legs were painted a fiery red by the implacable sun; and the stones and jagged brambles tore and bruised his feet until he left a blood stain at every step.
We were again overtaken by the soldiers about noonday and halted for another jungle meal. Off once more, we forged ahead for a time, but found it prudent to wait for the troopers to lead the way; for the route was beset with unexpected pitfalls. As once, in fighting our way along the bank of the river, we crashed headlong through the bushes into the dry, stony bed of a tributary—fifteen feet below. This mishap left little of my clothing, and gave the Australian the appearance of a modern Saint Sebastian.
A wider path began where we rejoined the soldiers. The higher mountain ranges fell away; but if the foothills were less lofty they were as steep, and the slopes were often clear of vegetation and reeking in mud. At the top of such a ridge we overtook an equine caravan returning from some village off to the southwest. Burdened with huge pack saddles, the horses began the perilous descent reluctantly. Suddenly three of them lost their footing, sat down on their haunches, and rolled over and over, their packs flying in every direction. James laughed loudly and slapped me on the back. The blow disturbed my equilibrium. My feet shot from under me, and, slipping, sliding, rolling, clutching in vain for support, I pitched down the five-hundred yard slope and splashed headfirst into a muddy stream at the bottom several seconds in advance of the horses.
Another mile left me barefooted and nearly as naked as my companion. Now and again we overtook a band of Laos carriers, once a young Buddhist priest in tattered yellow, attended by two servants. We had seen him somewhere a day or two before and remembered him not only by his garb but on account of the licentious cast of his coarse features. He joined our party uninvited and tramped along with us, puffing at a long saybully and chattering volubly. The soldiers greeted his sallies with roars of laughter and winked at us in a way to suggest that the tales he told would have made the efforts of Boccaccio seem Sunday-school stories. We deplored more than ever our ignorance of the Siamese tongue.