They dressed hurriedly and went downstairs through the quiet house. A sleepy Indian boy let them out. The streets were empty save for a few native sweepers; already there was promise of a hot day, but the morning was cool and fresh. The sea a sheet of rippling blue that creamed at the edge in long, slow rollers. The boys turned off the main thoroughfares, and struck downwards to the city.
Everything seemed asleep. There was no movement in any of the houses they passed, and no traffic in the streets. Occasionally a sleepy dog barked from a verandah, but without energy. There were many sleepers on these verandahs; often they caught glimpses of stretcher-beds behind bamboo blinds, where open-air enthusiasts had slumbered in outdoor freshness through the hot night. “Quite like Australia,” said Wally, approvingly. “This place isn’t so much unlike Brisbane, in many ways.”
“So I was thinking,” Jim observed. “Brisbane is a bit grubbier, and has more smells, and not such a mixture of races; but the Kanakas you see there are not unlike the Kaffirs here, and the place itself has a good many points of resemblance. It’s a kind of half-way house to the Old World Cities, I suppose.” He took out his pipe, and looked half regretfully at his friend. “I wish you smoked.”
“Not me!” said Wally, sturdily. “You waited until you were nineteen, and I’m jolly well going to. Don’t you bother.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to start!” Jim said. “I think it’s a fool game to begin too young. But I just wish you could, that’s all—it would be sociable, and I feel rather a pig; you must be hungry. It was feeling hungry that made me want a pipe.”
“I daresay we’ll pick up some grub somewhere,” Wally said, cheerfully. “I’m not hungry enough to worry about.” He looked at Jim keenly. “I believe there are ever so many times that you don’t smoke just because I’m there, and you don’t think it is sociable. Go on, you old donkey.”
“Donkey yourself,” returned Jim, somewhat shamefacedly, but fishing in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch. “I never did anything so stupid.” He changed the subject with thankfulness, having in common with his chum a great horror of any conversation that approached what they called “softness.” “Look at that jolly little kid!”
A small, brown person sat on a doorstep and looked at them with grave eyes. He might possibly have been two years old, but his gaze had the solemnity of extreme old age. He was clad in a very brief pink nightgown, and his mop of curly hair was standing erect, just as he had tousled it in sleep.
“Good morning,” said Wally, stopping and addressing the baby with a gravity equal to its own. “I hope you’re well. Will you shake hands?”
The baby contemplated the outstretched hand for a moment, and glanced again at the boyish face. Then he put his hand into Wally’s and permitted himself the ghost of a grave smile.