“It is good,” he said, as he stepped into the boat that was to take us to the prahu, “that my friends rejoice at our success this season in gathering nests; but great indeed would be their rejoicing, if they but knew its real extent.”
At this the “strong one” seemed to be a little uneasy, as if his suspicions had become excited, and, coming in advance of the others, he said:
“It may be long ere we meet again my brother,—perhaps never—who knows? It will be a satisfaction, then, if I take my last leave on board the prahu.” But Prabu, gently putting him aside, stepped into the boat, and, as the rowers were pushing her off, said:
“Great, indeed, has been the kindness of my brothers and father! Prabu’s gratitude shall be no less; for as soon as his feet rest upon the deck of the prahu, he will send them some presents, which will long keep his name green in their memories.”
“Now, Prabu,” said Martin, “tell me why it is that the prahu is half a mile from the shore, and riding at single anchor only?” But the captain, whose eyes were still fixed upon the party ashore, instead of replying, burst forth into an extravagant fit of laughter.
“Surely our friend is a little mad!” said Martin, queerly.
“Never mind, Martin; wait a while, and those fellows ashore will become madder still.”
“Have you both lost your senses? Will you, or will you not, tell me the meaning of all this?” cried my brother, angrily.
“When we reach the prahu,” I replied.
Martin threw himself back in the boat in a sulky fit. As soon, however, as we stepped on deck, he cried: