“Please reserve your comments on things in general till we’re on the boat and out of this village,” ordered the detective, rather sternly.
“Gee! What’s biting the boss?” whispered Patsy to Chick, as Nick Carter turned away.
“You’re liable to offend somebody about here if you talk too much about the river,” answered Chick. “This is a branch of the Ganges, the most sacred stream in India. The chief doesn’t want a fight on his hands just because you talk too much.”
“I wouldn’t say another word if the Ganges got up on its tail and gave me back slack from here to—to—wherever we’re going,” replied Patsy, who was always bound to have the closing speech if he could get it.
The boat was a large, clumsy-looking craft, which would hold all their party, with the baggage, without overcrowding. Moreover, it was not so clumsy as it appeared, for afterward, when the four natives under Jai Singh’s orders settled down to work with their oars, they showed that they could make good time even with a sluggish current against them and in the oppressive heat that even as the sun approached the west, made the white men gasp for breath.
They were not started yet, however.
Jai Singh, Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, and Chick were all on the rough landing stage, looking at the boat, to see that everything was stowed in that might be required, when there was a shout behind them. Half a dozen natives were stalking in their direction, and there was an indescribable air of official determination pervading the whole procession.
“Hello!” ejaculated Arnold. “What’s broken loose here? What do those black scalawags think they want?”
“Let the sahib keep quiet,” requested Jai Singh, in a low voice. “It is I who will talk to them.”
“Just as you like,” returned the millionaire, with a shrug. “I’m quite willing to keep out of the powwow, so long as it does not hold us up on our journey after my poor boy.”