"Yes, and it's the custom to dig it into any one they don't like. Argal, as the chap in the play says, they don't like us."
"Rubbish! Aren't we going to feed them and give them silver dollars?"
"Yes, but they'd prefer to kris us for a set of infidels, and pitch us overboard to the crocs."
"You've no faith in them, then?"
"Not a bit."
The men kept on as if their thews and sinews were of steel, and would have continued to send the boat along at the same speed had not Beecher interfered and explained to the Malay leader that as the tide was in their favour all that was necessary was for two of the men to dip their oars from time to time so as to keep the naga's head straight. By this there would be more chance of a shot or two being obtained, while they would all be fresher when they reached the end of the tidal flow, where the river was shallower, and they would have the stream to contend against.
The men laid in their oars, and for the next two or three hours of the glowing day the boat drifted steadily on, with the banks growing more and more beautiful, and shot after shot offering itself in the shape of gaily plumaged bird, monkey, or crocodile; but Beecher seemed to have grown as dreamy and thoughtful as his companion, and let chance after chance slip by.
"Why, you're not half bloodthirsty to-day, young 'un," said Hollins, rousing himself up a little at last. "Why don't you shoot?"
"Don't know," was the reply. "Perhaps it's because everything is so beautiful. It seems a shame to fire. It's like gliding along in some dream."
"Was," said Hollins, quite briskly. "I feel more awake now. There's another of those crocs!—Going to fire?"