Shadowy forms were leaping, one after another, from the branches above on to the deck. I slowly cocked my revolver, doubting my senses, for each time one of the invaders reached the deck he sprang into the air with the long, thrilling cry of pain that had awakened me, and with another bound was on the bulwarks and over the side of the launch, clinging to the railing.
With each cry, Baboo’s mocking voice came out, shrill and exultant, from behind a pile of life-preservers. “O Allah, judge the dogs. They would kris the great Tuan as he slept—the pariahs!—but they forgot so mean a thing as Baboo!”
The smell of warm blood filled the air, and a low snarl among the rubber-vines revealed the presence of a tiger.
I felt Aboo Din’s hand tremble on my shoulder.
The five Sikhs were drawn up in battle array before the cabin door, waiting for the word of command. I glanced at them and hesitated.
“Tid ’apa, Tuan” (never mind), Aboo Din whispered with a proud ring in his voice.
“Baboo blow Orang Kayah’s men away with the breath of his mouth.”
As he spoke the branches above the bow were thrust aside and a dark form hung for an instant as though in doubt, then shot straight down upon the corrugated surface of the deck.
As before, a shriek of agony heralded the descent, followed by Baboo’s laugh, then the dim shape sprang wildly upon the bulwark, lost its hold, and went over with a great splash among the labyrinth of snakelike mangrove roots.
There was the rushing of many heavy forms through the red mud, a snapping of great jaws, and there was no mistaking the almost mortal cry that arose from out the darkness. I had often heard it when paddling softly up one of the wild Malayan rivers.