The laborers, who were of the coolie caste, knew their place, and never presumed to even look at Jai Singh unless he addressed them.
Even then they usually kept their faces averted, as if the light of his countenance were too dazzling to be met by their unworthy eyes.
After the meal, Nick Carter and Jefferson Arnold sat smoking, as they rested in the shade of the spreading trees around them, amusing themselves by looking at the distant oarsmen.
“They are big, strong fellows,” remarked Nick Carter. “But they are full of superstition. You can see, by the way they huddle together, that they are afraid of what might come out of the woods. I do not mean wild animals, or even snakes—although there are plenty of them in the forests of this country. What these fellows fear is something of preternatural shape. If they weren’t so thoroughly in awe of Jai Singh, I am inclined to think they would get away and leave us.”
“That is true, sahib,” broke in Jai Singh, in a deep growl. “But the men are not to be blamed. Many strange things happen by night. Even I, who am afraid of no man, have known the chill fingers of fear on my shoulder ere now in such places as this. If all tales be true, the country back here is full of strange things, of which it is not wise to speak.”
“Oh, cut it out, Jai!” interrupted Patsy, with a shiver, half real and half in mockery. “What kind of guff are you giving us?”
“There are tales of men going into these forests and being swallowed up. No man has seen them again, not even their bones.”
“Wow!” howled Patsy.
“Others have gone in, or been driven in, alone and unarmed, by powers they could not stand against. After many days they have come out with their skin a silver gray, all cracked and dried. They have had neither eyes to see, nor tongue to speak, nor fingers to make signs with, so that none could tell what had befallen them.”
“Cheerful old cuss, isn’t he?” whispered Chick to his chief.