Captain Fairweather finally took out his watch, and remarked, "We must be off if we wish to see anything more of Bruni."
With ceremonious politeness the officers took leave of the Sultan, all of which impressed Tom as highly absurd. On shore there were, as stated, more thatched huts—these too were set on piles in order to prevent the venomous reptiles native to these shores from crawling in and out the open doors.
"Lots of tribes in Borneo," piped up the interpreter. "This tribe Muruts—head-hunters."
THE HEAD-HUNTERS OF BORNEO.
Tom stood transfixed in mute, horrified astonishment in front of the nearest hut. Its steep projecting roof had fallen somewhat into decay; the thatching in some places had fallen quite off. Before the doorway a group of natives were gathered, attracted by the strangers. They stared at the strangers, who in turn stared back with equal curiosity. Suspended across the doorway was a string of human heads—yes, horrible to relate—of human heads in different states of decomposition. "He great head-hunter," said the interpreter, pointing to the owner of the hut. "Count heads—one—two—three—"
"Twenty," announced Tom, solemnly, completing the count.
"These fellows bring home a head as a token of their prowess, just as a North American Indian brings home a scalp," explained Mr. Jollytarre. "They make a raid into another tribe, kill a man, and back they come with it as an evidence of their courage and skill. The more heads a man takes, the greater distinction he attains in his tribe. Nothing is thought of him by his own people until he chops off a head."
Tom looked again at the string of heads, and exclaimed, "Faugh! it makes me ill. I almost wish I hadn't come."
But disagreeable things are short-lived in a boy's mind. The head-hunters and their ghastly trophies faded away as he asked questions upon questions about Borneo, on his way back to the ship.