“No,” said one of them, after a considerable interval of silence—“No, there is nothing whatever to be seen. In such weather, it would be simply tempting fate. You may be quite sure that the Kiem Ping Hin is snugly lying at anchor at Poeloe Karabab. She would never think of starting in such a storm.”
“You may be right,” replied the other, “but the master’s orders were most positive. We are posted here on purpose to help the men of the Kiem Ping Hin to get their cargo safe ashore.”
“That is true enough, Than Khan, and we shall get our pay, I daresay; but, for all that, you cannot deny that she cannot possibly come in to-night. Just hark how the wind howls, hear how the breakers roar—our perch is shaking like a reed. How would you like to be out on such a night as this?”
“I,” cried Than Khan, “not for all the money in the world. But still we know the old Arab Awal Boep Said—he is a tough old sea-dog, and no weather will—”
“Look out!” cried the other; “there, just there! You see that big curling wave yonder! Look, you can just see it by the light of the foam. Yes, by Kong! A ‘djoekoeng!’ ”
“You are right, Liem King,” replied Than Khan, “it is a ‘djoekoeng’ ” (a boat made of a hollowed tree-stem). “There were two persons in her, both Javanese—I fancied a man and a woman.”
“Yes,” said Liem King; “the man was rowing hard, the woman seemed frightened, she had her hands up to her face.”
“The ‘djoekoeng,’ ” shouted Than Khan, “was heading for the shore; but she can never get through the breakers.”
“I am not so sure of that,” replied Liem King. “She was making straight for Moeara Tjatjing, if she can only keep that course, she may pull through.”
“Why,” said Than Khan, “in such a sea as this, no boat can live, she must be swamped. A rare feast for the boajas, eh?”