A number of small islands loomed ahead. The junk skirted the green patches so closely that they could see the natives going about their daily lives. The details of their tiny, palm-leaf shacks, standing on stilts over the water, could be seen clearly.
The day was hot and steamy and the tide was running low. The receding waters left vast, flat banks of slimy, stinking mud, alive with crawling creatures chased by long-legged birds. Along the bank myriad mangrove trees hugged the shore, their naked, crooked roots exposed.
“Reminds me of a basket o’ slimy, wrigglin’ snakes,” O’Malley observed sourly.
“It all smells very rare,” Allison said with a grin.
Stan was not watching the shore ahead, he was looking at a motorboat which had appeared off one of the small islands. It was the same boat that had put out into the bay at Singapore. It was cutting toward them, sending a white wedge of water foaming back from its prow. The Chinese boatman saw it and burst into a high-pitched chatter.
“Looks like we might have our first taste of the stuff Tom Koo spoke about,” Stan said.
O’Malley watched the oncoming boat with interest. “Sure, an’ we might have a bit of excitement,” he said eagerly.
“We may have to make a detour to Rangoon,” Allison said softly.
“Our boatman is scared stiff,” Stan observed.
“If we had our service pistols we might have some fun,” Allison said. “But all we have are our fists.”