I slept but indifferently; I missed the cooling swish of the punkah, and all through my dreams the crackle and breaking of glass seemed to mingle with the insistent buzz of the tiger-gnats.
Baboo’s diminutive form kept flitting between me and the fireflies.
The first half-lights of morning were struggling down through the green canopy above when I was brought to my feet by the discharge of a Winchester and a long, shrill cry of fright and pain.
Before I could disentangle myself from the meshes of the mosquito net I could see dimly a dozen naked forms drop lightly on to the deck from the obscurity of the bank, followed in each case by a long, piercing scream of pain.
I snatched up my revolver and rushed out on to the deck in my bare feet.
Some one grasped me by the shoulder and shouted:—
“Jaga biak, biak, Tuan (be careful, Tuan), pirates!”
I recognized Aboo Din’s voice, and I checked myself just as my feet came in contact with a broken beer bottle.
The entire surface of the little deck was strewn with glittering star-shaped points that corresponded with the fragments before me.
I had not a moment to investigate, however, for in the gloom, where the bow of the launch touched the foliage-meshed bank, a scene of wild confusion was taking place.