“Jolly stuff that black butter,” said one of the fellows, as he pointed to the barrels.
The small casks looked as if they had just come out of some Dutch farmhouse. They were all sealed with green wax and bore the well-known stamp of Van der Leeuw.
“I wish I could get hold of a couple of taël of that butter,” said another of the crew with a laugh.
“Well,” said another, “you can be off presently to the opium den of Babah Tjoa Tjong Ling and there you can get as much as you like of it. You will find it easy enough to get rid of your hardly earned wages.”
In a few minutes all the tins and barrels were safely stowed away and then the Javanese crew followed the steps of their Chinese masters to the “djaga monjet.”
When the five Chinamen had entered the little hut, the examination of Ardjan, who was still lying on the floor in the same painful position, was commenced at once.
On the way to the hut Liem King had told his master as much as he deemed prudent about Ardjan’s capture; but not a word did he breathe about Dalima.
Lim Ho listened with attention to his report. This Lim Ho was a tall, powerfully-built Chinaman. He was the chief of that band of smugglers, about five-and-twenty years of age. He had a wan yellow complexion, and a false, evil look in his slanting eyes.
When he heard it was Ardjan, the mate, who had been caught, he could not repress a smile of satisfaction.
As soon as Liem King had made his report, he asked in a tone of assumed indifference: