George Manville Fenn

"The Rajah of Dah"

Chapter One.

Off at last!

“Ahoy, there! All on board?”

“Yes; all right.”

“Got all your tackle?”

“I think so.”

“Haven’t forgotten your cartridges!”

“No; here they are.”

“I’ll be bound to say you’ve forgotten something. Yes: fishing-tackle?”

“That we haven’t, Mr Wilson,” said a fresh voice, that of a bright-looking lad of sixteen, as he rose up in the long boat lying by the bamboo-made wharf at Dindong, the little trading port at the mouth of the Salan River, on the west coast of the Malay Peninsula.

“Trust you for the fish-hooks, squire,” said the first speaker. “But, I say, take a good look round, Murray. It’s an awful fix to be in to find yourself right up in the wilderness with the very thing you want most left behind.”

“It’s very good of you, Wilson,” said the gentleman addressed, a broad-shouldered man of forty, tanned and freckled by the eastern sun, and stooping low to avoid striking his head against the attap thatch rigged up over the stern of the boat, and giving it the aspect of a floating hut. “It’s very good of you, but I think we have everything; eh, Ned?”

“Yes, uncle; I can’t think of anything else.”

“Knives, medicine, sticking-plaster, brandy, boxes, spirit-can, lamp, nets. Ah, I know, Ned: we’ve no needles and thread.”

The lad laughed merrily, and took out a kind of pocket-book, which he opened to display the above necessaries, with scissors and penknife as well.

“Well done, Ned! I believe you have more brains than I have. I can’t think of anything else, Wilson. I only want your good wishes.”

“Matches?” said the gentleman on the wharf.

“Plenty, and we have each a burning-glass.”

“That’s right, and now once more: take my advice.”

Johnstone Murray, enthusiast over matters of natural history, shook his head, and rather a stern look came into his eyes as his nephew watched him eagerly.

“But, hang it, man! you can make excursions up and down the river from Dindong, and up the little branches as well. Surely you can get all you want from here, and not lose touch of civilisation.”

“But we want to lose touch of civilisation, my dear fellow.—What do you say, Ned? Shall we stop here?”

“No, no, uncle; let’s go now.”

“Why, you foolish boy!” cried the gentleman addressed as Wilson, “you do not know what you are saying, or what risks you are going to run.”

“Oh, uncle will be careful, sir.”

“If he can,” said the other, gruffly. “I believe you two think you are going on quite a picnic, instead of what must be a dangerous expedition.”

“My dear Wilson,” said the principal occupant of the boat, merrily, “you shut yourself up so much in your bungalow, and lead such a serious plodding life over your merchandise and cargoes, that you see danger in a paddle across the river.”

“Ah, well, perhaps I do,” said the merchant, taking off his light pith sun-hat to wipe his shining brow. “You really mean to go right up the river, then?”

“Of course. What did you think I made these preparations for?”

“To make a few short expeditions, and come back to me to sleep and feed. Well, if you will go, good-luck go with you. I don’t think I can do any more for you. I believe you may trust those fellows,” he added in a low voice, after a glance at the four bronzed-looking strong-armed Malay boatmen, each with a scarlet handkerchief bound about his black hair as he sat listlessly in the boat, his lids nearly drawn over his brown lurid-looking eyes, and his thick lips more protruded than was natural, as he seemed to have turned himself into an ox-like animal and to be chewing his cud.

“You could not have done more for me, Wilson, if I had been your brother.”

“All Englishmen and Scotsmen are brothers out in a place like this,” said the merchant, warmly. “Go rather hard with some of us if we did not stick to that creed. Well, look here, if ever you get into any scrape up yonder, send down a message to me at once.”

“To say, for instance, that a tiger has walked off with Ned here.”

“Oh I say, uncle!” cried the boy.

“No, no, I mean with the niggers. They’re a rum lot, some of them. Trust them as far as you can see them. Be firm. They’re cunning; but just like children in some things.”

“They’re right enough, man, if you don’t tread on their corns. I always find them civil enough to me. But if we do get into trouble, what shall you do?”

“Send you help of course, somehow. But you will not be able to send a letter,” added the merchant thoughtfully. “Look here. If you are in trouble from sickness, or hurt by any wild animal, get some Malay fellow from one of the campongs to bring down a handkerchief—a white one. But if you are in peril from the people up yonder, send a red one, either your own or one of the boatmen’s. You will find it easy to get a red rag of some sort.”

“I see,” said Murray, smiling. “White, sickness; red, bloodshed.—I say Ned, hear all this?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Well; don’t you feel scared?”

“Horribly, uncle,” said the boy, coolly.

“Will you give up, and stop here in Dindong?”

The boy looked full in the speaker’s face, thrust his hands into the pockets of his brown linen trousers, and began to whistle softly.

“There, good-bye, Wilson. The sun will soon be overpowering, and I want to get on.”

“Well, you’ve got the tide to help you for the next three hours. Sorry you’re going. I’ll take great care of the specimens you send down. You can trust any of the boat-people—they know me so well. Any fellow coming down with rice or tin will bring a box or basket. God bless you both! Good-bye!”

There was a warm hand-shaking.

“Take care of yourself, Ned, my boy, and don’t let your uncle work you too hard.—Good-bye, my lads. Take great care of the sahibs.”

The Malay boatmen seemed to have suddenly wakened up, and they sprang to their places, responded with a grave smile to the merchant’s adjuration, pushed off the boat, and in a few minutes were rowing easily out into the full tide, whose muddy waters flowed like so much oil up past the little settlement, upon whose wharf the white figure of the merchant could be seen in the brilliant sunshine waving his hand. Then, as the occupants of the boat sat in the shade of their palm-leaf awning, they saw a faint blue smoke arise, as he lit a cigar and stood watching the retiring party. The house, huts, and stores about the little wharf began to grow distant and look toy-like, the shores to display the dull, green fringe of mangrove, with its curiously-arched roots joining together where the stem shot up, and beneath which the muddy water glided, whispering and lapping. And then the oars creaked faintly, as the boat was urged more and more out into mid-stream, till the shore was a quarter of a mile away; and at last the silence was broken by the boy, whose face was flushed with excitement, as he stood gazing up the smooth river, while they glided on and on through what seemed to be one interminable winding grove of dull-green trees; for he made the calm, grave, dark-skinned boatmen start and look round for danger, as he cried out excitedly:

“Hurrah! Off at last!”

Chapter Two.

Uncle Murray’s Lecture.

“Every man to his taste, Ned, my boy,” said Johnstone Murray, gentleman, to his nephew, who was home for a visit to his uncle—he called it home, for he had never known any other, and visited this but rarely, his life having been spent during the past four years at a Devon rectory, where a well-known clergyman received four pupils.

As the above words were said about six months before the start up the Salan River, Ned Murray’s guardian raised a large magnifying-glass and carefully examined a glittering fragment of stone, while the boy leaned over the table upon which his elbows rested, and eagerly watched his uncle’s actions.

“Is that gold, uncle?”

“Eh? gold? nonsense. Pyrites—mingling of iron and sulphur, Ned. Beautiful radiated lines, those. But, as I was saying, every man to his taste. Some people who have plenty of money like to go for a ride in the park, and then dress for dinner, and eat and drink more than is good for them. I don’t. Such a life as that would drive me mad.”

“But you didn’t answer my question, uncle.”

“Yes, I did, Ned. I said it was pyrites.”

“No, no. I mean the other one, uncle. Will you take me?”

“Get away with you! Go back to the rectory and read up, and by-and-by we’ll send you to Oxford, and you shall be a parson, or a barrister, or—”

“Oh, uncle, it’s too bad of you! I want to do as you do. I say: do take me!”

“What for?”

“Because I want to go. I won’t be any trouble to you, and I’ll work hard and rough it, as you call it; and I know so much about what you do that I’m sure I can be very useful; and then you know what you’ve often said to me about its being so dull out in the wilds by yourself, and you would have me to talk to of a night.”

“Silence! Be quiet, you young tempter. Take you, you soft green sapling! Why, you have no more muscle and endurance than a twig.”

“Twigs grow into stout branches, uncle.”

“Look here, sir: did your tutor teach you to argue your uncle to death when you wanted to get your own way?”

“No, uncle.”

“Do you think I should be doing my duty as your guardian if I took you right away into a savage country, to catch fevers and sunstrokes, and run risks of being crushed by elephants, bitten by poisonous reptiles, swallowed by crocodiles, or to form a lunch for a fastidious tiger tired of blacks?”

“Now you are laughing at me again,” said the boy.

“No, sir. There are risks to be encountered.”

“They wouldn’t hurt me any more than they would you, uncle.”

“There you are again, arguing in that abominable way! No, sir; I shall not take you. At your ago education is the thing to study, and nothing else. Now, be quiet!” and Johnstone Murray’s eyes looked pleasant, though his freckled brown face looked hard, and his eyes seemed to say that there was a smile hidden under the grizzled curly red beard which covered the lower part of his face.

“There, uncle, now I have got you. You’ve said to me scores of times that there was no grander education for a man than the study of the endless beauties of nature.”

“Be quiet, Ned. There never was such a fellow as you for disputing.”

“But you did say so, uncle.”

“Well, sir, and it’s quite right. It is grand! But you are not a man.”

“Not yet, but I suppose I shall be, some day.”

“Not if I take you out with me to catch jungle fever.”

“Oh, bother the old jungle fever!”

“So say I, Ned, and success to quinine.”

“To be sure. Hurrah for quinine! You said you took it often in swampy places to keep off the fever.”

“That’s quite right, Ned.”

“Very well then, uncle; I’ll take it too, as much as ever you like. Now, will you let me go?”

“And what would the rector say?”

“I don’t know, uncle. I don’t want to be a barrister. I want to be what you are.”

“A rough, roaming, dreamy, restless being, who is always wandering about all over the world.”

“And what would England have been, uncle, if some of us had not been restless and wandered all over the world.”

Johnstone Murray, gentleman and naturalist, sat back in his chair and laughed.

“Oh, you may laugh, uncle!” said the boy with his face flushed. “You laugh because I said some of us: I meant some of you. Look at the discoveries that have been made; look at the wonders brought home; look at that, for instance,” cried the boy, snatching up the piece of pale, yellowish-green, metallic-looking stone. “See there; by your discoveries you were able to tell me that this piece which you brought home from abroad is pyrites, and—”

“Hold your tongue, you young donkey. I did not bring that stone home from abroad, for I picked it up the other day under the cliff at Ventnor, and you might have known what it was from any book on chemistry or mineralogy.—So you want to travel?”

“Yes, uncle, yes!” cried the boy.

“Very well, then; get plenty of books, and read them in an easy-chair, and then you can follow the footsteps of travellers all round the world without getting shipwrecked, or having your precious soft young body damaged in any way.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” sighed the boy; “it’s very miserable not to be able to do as you like.”

“No, it isn’t, stupid! It’s very miserable to be able to do nearly as you like. Nobody can quite, from the Queen down to the dirtiest little boy in the streets. The freest man finds that he has the hardest master to satisfy—himself.”

“Oh, I say, uncle!” cried the boy; “don’t, don’t, please; that doesn’t seem like you. It’s like being at the rectory. Don’t you begin to lecture me.”

“Oh, very well, Ned. I’ve done.”

“That’s right; and remember you said example was better than precept.”

“And so it is, Ned.”

“Very well then, uncle!” cried the boy; “I want to follow your example and go abroad.”

Johnstone Murray brought his fist down bang upon the table of his study—the table covered with books, minerals, bird-skins, fossils, bones, and the miscellaneous odds and ends which a naturalist delights in collecting round him in his half study, half museum, where as in this case, everything was so sacred that the housemaid dared hardly enter the place, and the result was a cloud of dust which immediately made Ned sneeze violently. Then his uncle sneezed; then Ned sneezed; then they both sneezed together, and again and again.

“Oh, I say, uncle!” cried Ned; and he sneezed once more.

“Er tchishou! Bless the king!—queen I mean,” said the naturalist.

“You shouldn’t, uncle,” cried the boy, now laughing immoderately, as his uncle sneezed and choked, and wiped his eyes.

“It was all your fault, you young nuisance. Dear me, this dust—”

“Ought to be saved for snuff.”

“Now, look here, Ned,” said Mr Murray at last. “I do not say that some day when you have grown up to be a man, I may not ask you to accompany me on an expedition into some new untried country, such as the part of the Malay Peninsula I am off to visit next.”

“How long will it be before you consider I am a man, uncle?”

“Let’s see; how old are you now?”

“Sixteen turned, uncle.”

“Humph! Well, suppose we say at one and twenty.”

“Five years!” cried the boy in despair. “Why, by that time there will not be a place that you have not searched. There will be nothing left to discover, and—” (a sneeze), “there’s that dust again.”

“You miserable young ignoramus! what are you talking about?” cried the naturalist. “Why, if a man could live to be a hundred, and have a hundred lives, he would not achieve to a hundredth part of what there is to be discovered in this grand—this glorious world.”

He stood up with one hand resting on the table, and began to gesticulate with the other.

“Why, my dear boy, before I was your age I had begun to take an active interest in natural history, and for considerably over twenty years now I have been hard at work, with my eyes gradually opening to the wonders on every hand, till I begin now to feel sorrow and delight at how little I know and how much there is yet to learn.”

“Yes, uncle; go on,” cried the boy, eagerly.

“You said I was not to lecture you.”

“But I like it when you talk that way.”

“Ah, Ned, Ned! there’s no fear of one’s getting to the end,” said Murray, half sadly; “life is far too short for that, but the life of even the most humble naturalist is an unceasing education. He is always learning—always finding out how beautiful are the works of the Creator. They are endless, Ned, my boy. The grand works of creation are spread out before us, and the thirst for knowledge increases, and the draughts we drink from the great fount of nature are more delicious each time we raise the cup.”

Ned’s chin was now upon his thumbs, his elbows on the table once more, and his eyes sparkled with intense delight as he gazed on the animated countenance of the man before him; for that face was lit up, the broad forehead looked noble, and his voice was now deep and low, and now rang out loudly, as if he were some great teacher declaiming to his pupil on the subject nearest to his heart. Till it suddenly dawned upon him that, instead of quenching, he was increasing the thirst of the boy gazing excitedly in his eyes, and he stopped short in the lamest way, just as he was rising up to the highest pitch of his eloquence.

“Yes, uncle, yes!” cried Ned. “Go on—go on.”

“Eh? No; that’s all, my boy; that’s all.”

“But that isn’t all!” cried Ned excitedly, rising now. “That’s only the beginning of what I want to learn. I want to road in those books, uncle. I want to drink from that glorious fountain whose draughts are sweeter every time. I want to—I want to—I want to— Oh uncle, oh uncle, go on! do take me with you, there’s a dear old chap.”

The boy stretched out his hand, which was slowly taken and pressed as Johnstone Murray said in a subdued tone: “God grant that I may be doing rightly for you, Ned. You’ve beaten me finely with my own weapons, my boy.”

“And you’ll take me?”

“Yes, Ned, I give in. You shall be my companion now.”

“Hurrah!”

Ned sprang on to his chair, then on to the table, and waved his hand above his head. A month later he was on his way in one of the French boats to Singapore, from whence, after making a few final preparations, they went up in a small trading-steamer to the little settlement of Dindong, on the Salan River. Here they made a fortnight’s stay to engage a boat and men, and learn a little more of the land they were to explore, and at last the morning came when they parted from the hospitable merchant to whom Murray had had introductions; and the bamboo wharf had faded quite from sight, when Ned Murray again cried excitedly:

“Hurrah! Off at last!”

Chapter Three.

Up the River.

It was early morning yet, and the mists hung low, but the torrid sun rapidly dissipated each opalescent gauzy vapour, and before long the sky was of that vivid blue which reflected in the surface of the river changed its muddy hue, and gave it a beauty it really did not possess. Nothing can be more dull and monotonous than the fringe of mangroves which line the tidal waters of river and creek in the tropics, and after sitting watching the dingy foliage and interlacing roots for some time, in the hope of seeing some living creature, Ned Murray began to scan the river in search of something more attractive; but for a time there was the glistening water reaching on and on before them, now fairly straight, now winding and winding, so that at times they were completely shut in by the mangroves, and the Malays appeared to be rowing in a lake.

“Not much of scenery this, Ned,” said Murray, after a long silence.

“That’s what I was thinking, uncle. But I say, is it going to be all like this?”

“I should hope not. Oh no! these trees only grow where they can feel the sea-water, I believe. As we get higher up, where the river begins to be fresh, we shall see a change.”

“But it’s all so still. No fish, no birds, and no chance of seeing the animals for those trees.”

“Patience, my lad, patience.”

“But hadn’t we better get out the guns and cartridges, or the fishing-tackle?”

“Nothing to shoot as yet, nothing to catch, I should say; but we’ll have out a gun soon. Any fish to be caught here with a line, Hamet?”

The nearest of the Malay boatmen smiled, ceased rowing, and said in fairly good English, but with a peculiar accent: “Few; not many. Shrimps when the water is low.”

“Oh! but we can’t fish for shrimps without a net,” said Ned, contemptuously; “and that’s stupid sport. I did fish with a net once down in Devonshire, but I did not want to do it again. Why, I should have thought a river like this would have been full of something.”

“Hah!” said the Malay, pointing, and Ned followed the direction indicated by the man’s long brown finger.

“Eh? what?” said the boy, staring across the water. “What is it—a bird? where?”

“Don’t you see. There, fifty yards away, on the surface of the water?”

“No; I can’t see anything. Yes, I can; two brown-looking knobs. What is it? Part of a tree. Oh! gone. I know now; it was a crocodile.”

“No doubt about that, Ned, and I daresay we shall see plenty more.”

“Hah!” ejaculated the Malay again; and he pointed this time toward the right bank of the river, or rather to the fringe of mangroves on that side.

“Yes, I can see that one plain, just those two knobs. Why doesn’t it show more?”

“For the sake of being safe perhaps. There you can see its yes now, just above the surface.”

“But the gun, uncle. Let’s shoot one.”

“Waste of powder and ball, my boy. It is a great chance if we could hit a vulnerable part, and I don’t like wounding anything unnecessarily.”

“Are there many of those things here?” said Ned, after watching the two prominences just above the water, and vainly trying to make out the reptile’s body.

“Many things?” said the man, evidently puzzled.

“Yes; crocodiles?”

“Hah! Yes, plenty, many; sahib jump in and swim, crocodile—”

He ceased speaking and finished in pantomime, by raising one hand and rapidly catching the other just at the wrist.

“Snap at me?” said Ned.

“Yes, sahib. Catch, take under water. Eat.”

“I say, though, is he stuffing me? Do they really seize people, or is it a traveller’s tale?” said Ned, appealing to his uncle; but the Malay, who had been engaged from his knowledge of English to act as interpreter up the river, caught at the boy’s words, though he did not quite grasp his meaning.

“No, no, sahib; not stuff you. Crocodile stuff, fill himself much as he can eat.”

Then he turned sharply and said a few words to his companions in the Malay tongue, and they replied eagerly in chorus.

“There’s no doubt about it, Ned,” said his uncle. “They are loathsome beasts, and will drag anything under water that they can get hold of.”

“Then we ought to kill it,” said Ned excitedly. “Let’s shoot it, at once.”

“Where is it?”

“That one’s gone too,” said Ned, with a disappointed air.

“Plenty more chances, my boy; but if you do try your skill with a gun, wait till we see one of the reptiles on the bank.”

“But there is no bank.”

“Wait a bit, and you’ll see sand-banks and mud-banks in plenty. But the appearance of those creatures answers one of your questions. There must be plenty of fish in the river, for that forms their principal food.”

Just then their attention was taken up by one of the Malay boatmen drawing in his oar, and then taking out a small bag from which he extracted a piece of broken betel-nut and a half-dried leaf. Then from the same bag he took a small brass box carefully hammered to form a pattern, and upon opening this a thick white paste became visible.

“What’s that?” whispered Ned.

“Lime made from coral and mixed into a paste with water.”

“But what is he going to do?”

“Watch him.”

Ned was already watching, and saw the man take a little of the wet lime paste from the box with his finger, and smear it over the leaf. Then the box was put away, and the scrap of nut carefully rolled up in the leaf and placed in the man’s mouth, when he went on contentedly chewing as he resumed his oar and pulled steadily on.

“I never saw them get their betel ready to chew before, uncle,” whispered Ned. “I say, what leaf is that?”

“Sirih, a little climbing kind of pepper.”

“Well,” continued Ned with a laugh; “I don’t know whether that’s a bad habit, but it looks a very nasty one. What savages!”

“They might say the same about our Jacks with their tobacco,” said his uncle.—“How would you like to live there?”

He pointed to where, in an opening in the mangroves, a tiny village of a few houses became visible, mere huts, but pretty enough to look at with their highly-pitched, palm-thatched roofs, showing picturesque gables and ornamentally woven sides, the whole raised on bamboo piles, so as to place them six or eight feet above the level of the river. A few cocoa-nut trees grew close at hand, and a couple of good-sized boats were drawn up and tied to posts, while a group of the occupants stood gazing at the passing party.

“No; I don’t think I should like to live there,” said Ned, as the men rowed on, and the houses with their cluster of palm-like trees gave place once more to the monotonous green of the mangroves. And now the boy altered his tactics. For a time he had scorned the shelter of the thatched roof which covered the afterpart of the roomy boat, and been all life and activity, making the Malays smile at his restlessness, as he passed among them resting his hand first on one, then on another brawny shoulder, to get right forward to the sharply-pointed prow, and sit there looking up the river; while his uncle rearranged some of the packages and impedimenta necessary for their long trip.

“There,” he said, as he finished for the time, by hanging two guns in slings from the roof, Ned having returned to sit down, and he began wiping his face. “I think that will do. If we had designed a boat to suit us for our trip, we couldn’t have contrived anything better. That is the beauty of travelling in a country where the rivers are the only roads. You require no bearers, and you have no worry about men being dissatisfied with their loads, and then having to set up a tent when the day’s journey is over. Here we are with a roof over us in our travelling tent, and all we have to do at night is to tether the boat to the shore, have a fire lit for cooking, and eat, sleep, and rest.”

“But you will not always keep to the boat, uncle?”

“No; we shall make a few little expeditions when we can, but, from what I have learned, the country farther north and east is nearly all jungle, with only a few elephant tracks through the forest by way of roads. Here, hadn’t you better sit still for a bit out of the sun.”

“Yes; coming back directly,” was the reply; and, going forward, Ned stood with his hands in his pockets gazing up the river. “I say, uncle,” he cried at last; “I’m getting tired of these mangroves. Why, the shore’s all alike, and oh, how hot it is!”

The Malays rowed steadily on with their eyes half-closed, paying not the slightest heed to the rays of the sun, which seemed now to be pouring down with a fervour that was terrible. The tide still set up the river, and very little exertion on their part kept a good way on the boat, as they swung to and fro, keeping pretty well together, their eyes half-closed, and their jaws working at the betel-nut each man had in his cheek.

“Here, come into shelter till the heat of the day is past,” said Murray.

“All right, uncle.”

Ned was standing right up on the prow, intently watching the two prominences over the eyes of one of the crocodiles which was gliding slowly about in the tideway on the look-out for food, when the summons came, and turning sharply, a peculiar sensation of giddiness attacked him. He threw up his hands to his head, and in an instant lost his balance, plunged in head foremost and was gone.

As the water splashed in over the bows, Hamet uttered a shout, the men ceased rowing, and Murray rushed out from beneath the shelter, tearing off his loose linen jacket, and eagerly scanning the water, ready to plunge in as soon as Ned reappeared.

“No, no,” cried Hamet, hoarsely; and then, giving a sharp order to his companions, the course of the boat was changed, and he leaned over the side, the men muttering excitedly to each other, for they had seen the eyes of the crocodile sink beneath the water just as the loud splash was made when the boy fell in.

It was a matter of only a few moments before there was a movement in the dark water three or four yards away. The men on the side opposite gave their oars a sudden dip and drag, the boat swung round across the tide, and, reaching over, Hamet caught Ned’s wrist, dragged him to the side just as there was a sharp shock against the forward part of the boat, a jerk, and a sensation communicated to the occupants as if they had come into collision with the trunk of a tree, and it was passing under the boat. While, as with Murray’s help, Hamet hauled the boy into the boat, there was a tremendous swirl in the water, just where he had been, a great horny tail rose above the surface and struck it with a sharp slapping sound, and disappeared.

“That was close!” exclaimed Murray, as the boat glided on, and the Malays talked rapidly together, Hamet giving his employer a curiously significant look.

At that moment Ned opened his eyes, sat up quickly, and then struggled to his feet.

“Did I go overboard?” he said. “Yes; I remember,” he continued quickly. “I felt giddy all at once. Oh! my hat.”

This had been forgotten, but there it was floating on the surface only a short distance away, and a few strokes of the oars enabled him to recover it.

“There, get under the roof and change your things,” said his uncle. “We’ll wring these out, and they’ll soon dry in the sun.”

“Yes; but who pulled me out?” cried Ned; and on being told, he held out his hand to Hamet, who took it respectfully, and bent over it for a moment.

“Thank you,” said Ned; and then, “was it the sun made me turn like that? I say, uncle, it would have been awkward if that old crocodile had caught sight of me.”

“This is a bad beginning, Ned,” said Murray gravely. “That hideous reptile did see you, and was within an ace of getting hold.”

“Ugh!” ejaculated Ned, changing colour.

“No crocodiles much higher up,” said Hamet.

“Then the sooner we are higher up the better,” muttered Murray as the boat glided on; and Ned was very quiet as he changed his wet things.

“I say, uncle,” he said at last, “I’m very sorry. I did mean to be careful, and not do anything to worry you. I couldn’t help that, could I?”

“No, it was an accident, and will be a lesson to you to be careful. You see how soon anything goes wrong.”

About this time the tide, which had helped them well on their upward journey, began to grow slack, then to pause; and the men rapidly rowed across to the edge of the mangroves, where the boat was made fast in the shade, and Hamet signified that they would rest now for some hours till the tide turned, and the sun was beginning to get low.

Food was produced, but Ned did not want much dinner, and sat with rather a disgusted look upon his countenance, gazing between the leaves at the surface of the river, watching for the muddy-looking prominences above the eyes of the crocodiles; and thinking how he should like to spend the next few days gliding about in a boat, sending bullets into the brains of the treacherous-looking brutes as they slowly swam about in the tidal stream.

The sound of heavy breathing made him turn his head at last to see that the Malays were all fast asleep, and that his uncle had followed their example; and as Ned looked, he could see the great drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead.

Perhaps it was the effect of seeing others asleep—perhaps the heat—at any rate, the result was that a drowsy sensation stole over the boy; and the dark leaves which touched the palm thatching of the roof, the metallic dazzling glare from the surface of the river, and the rippling sound of the water all passed away, as Ned dropped into a dreamless sleep, which lasted till he was touched by his uncle.

“Wake up, Ned. Going on.”

“Have I been asleep?”

“Look for yourself.”

The Malays were forcing the boat out into the stream once more, which, instead of glancing like molten silver with a glare which was painful to the eyes, now seemed to be of a deep glowing orange, the reflection of the wondrous sky rapidly changing in its refulgent hues from gold to orange, to a deep-red and purple, as the sun sank rapidly behind the great dark belt of trees on their left.

“The tide is just upon the turn again. Can’t you feel that it is much cooler?”

“No, not yet,” replied Ned. “I turned hot when we first got to Singapore, and I’ve never been cool since.”

“Not when you plunged into the river?”

Ned gave him a sharp look.

“I don’t remember anything about that,” he replied; “but I say, uncle, you might let me have a shot at one of the crocs now.”

Murray laughed, but made no reply, and they sat in silence watching the wonderful sunset, as the men, well refreshed, sent the boat along at a pretty good rate, the tide soon afterwards lending its help. This was kept on till long after dark, and the crew did not cease rowing till they came abreast of another tiny village. Here they fastened the boat to a post in company with a couple more, after exchanging a few words with some dusky-looking figures on the strip of shore, beyond which a group of huts could be just made out, backed by trees, which looked of an intense black, while above them was the purple sky spangled with stars which seemed double the size of those at home.

This time Ned was quite ready for his share of the evening meal, which was eaten in silence as the travellers sat watching a patch of bushes which grew where the mangroves ceased.

“Why, it’s just like a little display of fireworks,” Ned whispered. “As if the people there were letting them off because we had come.”

“Yes; it is very beautiful. Look! they seem to flash out like the sparks in a wood fire, when the wind suddenly blows over it, and then go out again.”

“Yes,” said Ned thoughtfully; “our glow-worms that we used to find and bring back to put in the garden were nothing to them. Look at that!”

He pointed to where a bright streak of light glided through the darkness for a few yards, and then stopped suddenly, when all around it there was a fresh flashing out of the lights.

“Why, uncle!” cried Ned, “if we caught a lot of those and hung them up in a glass globe, we shouldn’t want this lamp.”

“I don’t know how the experiment would answer, Ned,” was the reply. “But it would be awkward to go plashing about in the mud and water to catch the fireflies, and we have no glass globe, while we have a lamp.”

The coruscations of the fireflies seemed to fascinate Ned so much that he became quite silent at last, while the Malays sat huddled together chewing their betel, and talking in a low subdued tone. Then Murray struck a match to light his pipe, and the flash showed Ned’s intent face.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

“I was trying to puzzle it out, uncle.”

“What?”

“Oh, there are three things,” said Ned, as the half-burned match described a curve and fell into the water to be extinguished with a hiss, looking as it flew something like one of the fireflies ashore, but of a ruddier tint.

“Well, philosopher,” said Murray, leaning over against the side of the boat, “let’s have some of your thoughts.”

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“No. Honour bright.”

“Well, uncle, first of all, I was wondering why those lights in the fireflies don’t burn them.”

“Easily answered, Ned; because they are not hot.”

“But they seem to be burning like the flame in a lamp, only of course very small.”

“Seem, Ned, but they are not burning. It’s light without heat, the same as you see on decaying fish; and as we shall find in some of the great mushrooms in the jungle. It is one of the puzzles scientific men have not quite settled yet. We have it, you see, in our own glow-worms. I have often seen it in a kind of centipede at home, which to me seems to be covered with a kind of luminous oil, some of which it leaves behind it on a gravel path or the trunk of a tree.”

“Yes; I’ve seen that,” said Ned thoughtfully.

“Then, again, you have it on the sea-shore, where in calm, hot weather the luminosity looks like pale golden-green oil, so thick that you can skim it from a harbour.”

“But what can it all be for?”

“Ah, there you pose me, Ned. What is everything for? What are we for?”

“To go up the river, and make all sorts of discoveries.”

“A good answer. Then let’s roll ourselves in our blankets and go to sleep. Hamet says that we shall start again before it is light, and they are going to sleep now.”

“All right. Shall I make the beds?”

Murray laughed, for the bed-making consisted in taking two blankets out of a box, and then they rolled themselves up, the lamp was turned down, and, save for a few moments’ rustling sound caused by Ned fidgeting into a fresh place, all was silent, the faint whisper of the water gliding by the side of the boat hardly warranting the term sound.

“Asleep, Ned?” came after a pause.

“No, uncle.”

“Thinking?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“What about?”

“I was thinking how horrid it would be if those people came stealing on board with their krises, and killed us all.”

“Then don’t think any more such absurd rubbish, and go to sleep.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“The people out there have just as much cause to fear that we should turn pirates, and go and attack them.”

There was another pause, and then a fresh repetition of the questioning, and this time Ned had been thinking how easy it would be for Hamet and his companions to stab and drop them overboard.

“Get out, you horrible young imaginer of evil. If they did that they would not be paid for their journey.”

“No, uncle, but they’d get the guns and all our things.”

“Ned, I’m beginning to think I ought to have left you at home,” said Mr Murray quietly.

“Oh, I say uncle, I couldn’t help tumbling overboard.”

“No, sir, but you can help putting all kinds of bloodthirsty ideas in my head. Now go to sleep.”

“Well, uncle, if you’ll promise not to believe you ought to have left me at home, I will not think anything like that again.”

“Very well, sir. It’s a bargain.”

There was a long silence, and then, ping—ing—ing—ing, came a sharp, piercing trumpeting.

“Here he is, Ned.”

“Who, uncle?”

“The fellow who wants to have our blood.”

“Shall I get the guns, uncle?” whispered Ned, in awe-stricken tones.

“Bah! Nonsense! Whoever shot at a mosquito?”

“Mosquito! Oh, I say, what a shame to scare me like that.”

The insect came, filled himself full, and flew off replete; but somehow sleep would not come to either Ned or his uncle, and they were lying hot and weary longing for the repose, when they both started up, for from somewhere in the forest beyond the cottages came a deep-toned sound which can only be rendered by the word pow!

“What’s that, uncle?”

“Hist! talk in a whisper. It may be some kind of ape on the prowl; but I’m afraid—”

“So am I, uncle, horribly.”

“Be quiet, sir, and let me finish what I have to say,” cried Murray angrily. “I was going to say I’m afraid it’s a tiger.”

“Oh, I say, do get down the guns,” whispered Ned. “A tiger? And loose?”

“Loose? Why, you young donkey, do you think this is the zoological gardens, and the tiger’s cage has been left open?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure; only it seems very risky to be here like this, and not even able to shut the door. No—no—no—no, uncle,” continued Ned hastily; “you promised you would not think that you ought to have left me at home.”

At that moment the cry came again louder and nearer, but modified so that there could be no doubt about the animal that had given vent to the sound.

The knowledge that a tiger was prowling about somewhere near was enough to make Murray rise softly, and reach down one of the guns from the slings, and slip a couple of ball-cartridges into the barrels, and thus prepared he sat waiting, both having the consolation of knowing that if the animal attacked them, it could only be by taking to the water first and swimming to the boat.

The sound came again, exactly, as Ned said afterwards when he felt quite safe, like the cry of a magnified tom-cat.

But a couple of hours passed away without further alarm, and somewhere about that time Murray gave a start, for he had been fast asleep.

“Ned,” he whispered.

A heavy breathing was his answer, and the next minute he too was fast asleep only to be awakened by the warm sun at last, and to find from Hamet that the boat had been cast off, and they had been rowing steadily up the river from the earliest dawn of day.

“Ned,” said Murray. “Ned.”

There was no answer, and he caught hold of the boy.

“Hi, uncle! quick! the gun! It’s got hold of my arm.”

“What has?”

“Oh, it’s you,” said Ned, with a sigh of relief. “I dreamed something seized me, and I didn’t know whether it was a tiger or a croc.”

Chapter Four.

Guests or Prisoners?

Five more days were passed ascending the river, which by degrees began to display banks that were park-like and densely packed with forest trees. The dismal mangroves had disappeared, and in their place graceful palms shot up and spread their feathered plumes; bamboos rose in clumps like gigantic grasses, and canes swung from branch to branch, and festooned specimens of timber which was often one blaze of colour, and whose petals sprinkled the now bright clear water.

A tiny village was passed at intervals, and from time to time some boat floated by them deeply laden with rice or tea. At night the boat was moored to some tree trunk. The men went ashore, and collected wood and lit a fire for cooking purposes, and then all returned to sleep on board before starting early in the cool misty morning, so as to have some hours’ rest in the middle of the day, before the journey was resumed in the evening.

It was a calm and peaceful, even if it were a monotonous little voyage, for, in spite of some object worthy of a naturalist’s attention being pointed out, Murray preferred to wait till he was farther on his way before commencing his collecting; and white-plumaged falcon and beautiful long-tailed kingfishers were allowed to fly by unmolested.

“Wait a bit, Ned,” he said, “and you shall have your hands full.”

The river was now beautiful. It was a broad clear stream, with mountains visible away to the east, wherever an opening occurred in the woods, and it seemed a wonder that so lovely a country should show so seldom that it was inhabited.

At the villages they passed, the people looked peaceful, quiet, and inoffensive, although every man carried a deadly-looking kris in its wooden sheath, thrust in the twisted-up band of the scarf-like silk or cotton sarong, which was wrapped round the middle in the form of a kilt, and with the exception of something worn in the shape of a hat to keep off the sun’s piercing rays, this was the only garment many of the people displayed.

They brought fruit when asked, every house having its cluster of fruit-trees about it. In some cases there were cocoa-nuts, but more frequently bananas of two or three kinds, which they parted with for a mere trifle, these forming an admirable addition to the supply of food.

Hamet generally went to market, and came back smiling often enough with a large bunch of the finger-shaped fruit, a bag of rice, and when he was most fortunate in his foraging, a couple of skinny-looking chickens and some eggs.

“Getting tired, Ned?” said Murray, one glorious morning as the men were steadily rowing on, keeping close up to the trees on their right, for the sake of the shade and the slower motion of the stream.

“No, not tired,” replied the boy. “It’s all too beautiful for one to get tired, but I do feel as if I should like to be doing something. I keep seeing birds I want to shoot, and flowers I should like to pick.”

“Then here’s news for you, boy. I reckon that we are now well up into the region I wanted to explore, and to-morrow work shall begin in real earnest.”

Ned’s eyes sparkled. “Begin shooting?”

“Yes, and collecting botanical specimens. There will be no need now to toil up a certain distance every day, and we shall stop at every likely-looking collecting ground to go ashore, and certainly explore every side stream or creek.”

“And fish? Hamet says it would be capital if I could catch enough fish for a dinner now and then; and I want to bathe.”

“Of course, and you shall try; but there are crocodiles. I have seen two within the past hour, one swimming, and the other lying on a sandbank.”

“Why, I saw that,” cried Ned; “but it was so still that I concluded it was all fancy, it lay so close, and looked so like the sand and mud. Well, I may fish if I can’t bathe, and—well, that does seem curious just as I said that. Look, there are two of the black fellows at it.”

“A dark brown and a light brown to be more correct,” said Murray, as he looked at a boat some fifty yards ahead of them, where it had just shot round a bend of the smooth stream, with a Malay boy paddling; while another in bright sarong and gay-looking baju or jacket, and a natty little military-looking cap on one side of his head, leaned back trailing a line for some kind of fish.

“I say, you sir,” cried Ned loudly, as he noted that the brown-looking boy was about his own age, and that he was watching the newcomers eagerly, “what’s the Malay for what you are catching, and how many have you caught?”

For answer the boy gave his line a snatch in, and let it go again, showing his teeth, and laughing heartily.

“Well, you might be civil,” said Ned flushing. “I say, Hamet, ask him how many he has caught.”

The boatman asked the required question, and received an answer in the Malay tongue.

“He says he has only just begun.”

“Well, ask him what sort of fish he catches.”

But before the question could be asked, the boy shouted something.

“He says, sahib, are you fond of fishing?”

“Yes, of course,” shouted Ned, forgetful of the apparent need of an interpreter.

By this time, the boats had passed each other and the distance was increasing, when there came in good plain English: “I say, where are you going?”

“Up the river,” cried Ned in astonishment. “Know any more English? Where do you live? How far is it away from here, and what’s your name?”

The boy in the boat threw out his line again, and burst into a shout of laughter, greatly to Ned’s annoyance, for it sounded derisive; but there was no opportunity for further attempts at communication, for their boat swept round the bend, and it was plain enough whence the fishers had come, for, beautifully situated in a lake-like curve of the stream, they could see quite a pretentious-looking village with what was evidently a mosque, and just beyond it, a strong-looking stockade. The houses were of exactly the same type as those they had before passed, but in addition there were several of considerable size, whose sides were woven in striking patterns, while dense groves of cocoa, betel, and nipah palms added to the beauty of the scene.

Along the shore a dozen or two of boats were drawn up, while floating alone and doubled in the mirror-like water was a large prahu on whose deck several men were lolling about. Just then a naga or dragon, boat came swiftly from behind it, propelled by a dozen men in yellow jackets and scarlet caps, and three or four showily-costumed Malays could be seen seated and standing in the shade of the awning, which, like that of their own boat, was of palm-leaves or attap, but far more neatly-made.

“What place is this, Hamet?”

“Don’t know, sir,” he said. “Never been so far. It must be Campong Bukit, and that is one of the rajah’s boats.”

“What rajah?”

“Rajah of Dah. Great prince.”

“Ah, well, we may as well stop and land, and I daresay we can buy some fresh fruit and chickens and rice. What’s that?”

“Ibrahim says don’t stop—not good place,” replied Hamet, for one of the men had whispered to him.

“Oh, but Mr Wilson said this was an important village, and that there were English people here.”

The question of stopping or not was soon decided, for by a dexterous turn the dragon boat was swept across them, their way stopped, and one of the Malays beneath the awning shouted something imperiously to the men.

Hamet replied in Malay, while Murray strained his ears to try to pick up the meaning of some of the words, without success, and then turned impatiently to Hamet.

“What do they want?” he said.

“To know who you are, sir, and where you are going.”

“Tell him to mind his own business,” said Murray, sharply, and to Ned’s great delight. “No; it would be uncivil. Tell him I am an English gentleman travelling for my pleasure, and that we are going to land to look at the place and buy provisions.”

This was duly interpreted, a fresh answer made, and permission given, the naga being kept close alongside as they all rowed for what proved to be quite a respectable landing-place, that is to say, a roughly-made jetty formed by driving bamboos into the sand and mud.

“Ask him if there are not some English people here,” said Murray to Hamet.

“No, uncle, don’t. Look there, in front of those trees, there’s an Englishman with a white umbrella, and a lady with a parasol. Oh, I say, what a shame; she’s using an opera-glass—and you said we were coming up into quite a savage place.”

“So I did, Ned,” said his uncle, rubbing his ear; “but I can’t help it. Civilisation crops up everywhere now, and they say you can’t get away from cotton prints and Staffordshire pottery without running up against Sheffield knives.”

“But it is so disappointing. I say, look, and there’s another lady, and they’re going on to that jetty to see us come in. There’ll be a steamboat call next, and I daresay there’s a railway station somewhere among the trees.”

“Never mind, Ned,” said Murray, with a comical look of chagrin in his countenance. “We’ll only buy what we can and be off again directly. I certainly didn’t expect this. Why, there’s another Englishman,” he said, more loudly than he had intended, for they were close up to the jetty now, and the man of whom he had spoken, a red-faced youngish fellow in flannel shirt and trousers and a straw hat, said loudly:

“Not a bad shot, sor. Make it Oirish, and ye’ll be right.”

“I beg your pardon,” cried Murray, hastily raising his hat, and the salute was returned. “What place is this?”

“Dirthy Bucket, sor. Campong Bukit they call it. Are ye from home lately?”

“From England? Yes.”

All this was said as the boat glided along by the bamboo posts, and Murray added hastily: “Perhaps you would not mind helping us. We want to buy some provisions—something to eat.”

“Buy something to ate?” said the man, smiling. “Whisht, here’s the masther and the ladies.—Here’s an English gentleman, sor.”

There was rather an angry buzzing here from the dragon boat, as the gentleman with the white umbrella came on to the jetty, the two ladies with him remaining behind, while quite a little crowd of Malays began to collect on the river-bank.

“English gentleman?” said the newcomer. “Glad to see you, sir. From Singapore, I presume!”

“Not just lately; we have been staying at Dindong. We were on our way up the river, and this place seemed a likely one to lay in a store of fresh provisions. Am I right?”

“Perfectly. Come ashore, my dear sir. Your son?”

“Nephew,” replied Murray, and Ned bowed stiffly.

“Just as welcome in this savage place. This way; my bungalow is a very little way off.”

“But my boat, guns, and the like?”

“Be safe? Tim, jump in and take charge, while the gentlemen come up to tiffin.”

“But, sor, there’ll be nobody to—”

“Oh, never mind; we’ll manage. My factotum, butler, footman, groom, everything,” continued the stranger. “Did those fellows bring you in?”

“Not exactly. They showed us the way.”

“Hem!” said the stranger, with a dry cough; and he put up his white umbrella again. “Mind the sun?”

“Oh, no; we are getting a bit acclimatised.”

“You’re lucky then; I’m not. My dears, gentlemen from home. Mr—Mr—?”

“Murray.”

“Mr Murray. My wife and daughter. Oh, by the way, forgot to introduce myself: Barnes, Doctor Barnes, resident physician to His Highness the Rajah of Dah, in whose capital you stand. My dear, Mr Murray and his nephew have kindly consented to take tiffin with us.”

“You are very kind,” said Murray, hesitating.

“No apologies are necessary,” said the elder of the two ladies, rather a yellow, quick-spoken body; and she made as if to take the newcomer’s arm. “We are only too glad to see a fresh face—a white one, are we not, Amy?”

“Indeed we are, mamma,” said the bright-looking girl addressed, and in a half-amused way, she took Ned’s arm as her father went on in front.

“I little thought of seeing English visitors,” she continued. “Shall I be impertinent if I ask why you have come so far?”

“Oh no!” said Ned rather brusquely, for he resented the questioning. “Uncle and I have come up on a sporting and natural history trip. We are going on directly.”

“Indeed! Then the rajah has given you leave?”

“What rajah? The man here?”

“Yes,” said the girl, smiling.

“Oh no! We did not know it was necessary. Uncle will ask him then, I suppose. Does he call it his property?”

The girl looked round at him in surprise,—

“Oh yes; he is the rajah or prince of the country.”

“Yes; but I thought all this belonged to the Queen.”

“Well, I suppose it does, but our prince here thinks he is as important a person as the queen of England, and does exactly as he likes.”

“Oh!”

“You must recollect that we are a very very long way from Singapore here, and, excepting what he has been told of England and her power, the rajah knows very little about our country, and laughs at my father as if he were telling him romances when he talks of our army and ships of war.”

“He must be awfully conceited, then.”

“He is,” said the girl laughing. “I believe he thinks he is the greatest monarch upon earth.”

“Then you are the only English people here?”

“Oh no. We have Mr and Mrs Braine and their son, and Mr and Mrs Greig.”

“Who are they?”

“Mr Braine is a gentleman papa recommended to the rajah. He wanted some one to advise him and help him to introduce English customs, and to drill his army. Mr Greig is a merchant who lives here to purchase the produce of the country to send down to Singapore. You will see them, I daresay, for they are sure to come in as soon as they know that you are here.”

“It all seems very funny. I thought we were coming into quite a wild place where there were elephants and tigers, and great snakes and birds that we could collect.”

“Well, it could not be much more wild,” said the girl, smiling. “Directly you get past our house the dense jungle begins. We are completely shut in by it, except in the front here by the river. Wild? You will hear the tigers as soon as it is dark.”

“But I shall not be here,” said Ned, laughing.

“I think you will,” said the girl, looking at him curiously.

“Oh no; my uncle has quite made up his mind about what he intends to do, and nothing can change him.”

“Indeed! We shall see. Here we are.”

They had been passing through the place with its houses dotted about in the most irregular fashion, just as the builders had felt disposed to plant them, and now came upon an attractive-looking bungalow similar in character to the others, and like them raised on bamboo piles seven or eight feet from the ground, but with numberless little additions such as would be made by an Englishman. Notably a high rustic fence enclosing a large garden planted liberally with tropic shrubs and flowers, and a broad flight of steps leading up to a great open verandah which ran nearly along the whole of the front, and over which the attap roof was brought to rest on clusters of bamboo formed into pillars, up which ran and twined in profuse growth passion-flowers and other creepers.

“What a delightful place!” cried Ned. “Why, it’s quite a treat to see a good garden. Look at the fruit!”

“Mamma is very proud of the garden, and—”

“Come along, squire,” said the doctor, from the head of the steps. “Welcome to the Fernery.”

Murray was already seated at a well-spread table, upon which a couple of Malayan women, in neat cotton sarongs woven into an attractive plaid, were placing plates and dishes, and they greeted the newcomers with a look of surprise and a smile.

“There, gentlemen,” said the doctor, “you could not have arrived at a more opportune time, but you must excuse all shortcomings. We keep up old English customs as well as we can, and can give you coffee and eggs. No fried bacon, squire,” he added laughingly to Ned. “You are where our genial useful old friend the pig is an abomination. Why, it’s five years since I’ve tasted a sausage, or a bit of ham. But we can give you a curry of which I am proud. Eh, my dear?”

“Mr Murray will let a hearty English welcome make up for anything lacking,” said the doctor’s lady. “He knows that we are in the wilderness.”

“A wilderness with bamboo chairs, a table, a clean cloth, glass, plate, napkins, and flowers and fruit,” cried Murray. “Why, my dear madam, you forget that we have been picnicking in a boat. There, don’t spoil your welcome by apologies!”

Then there was a busy interval during which the greatest justice was done to an excellent meal, and Ned was initiated into the mystery of sambals—tiny saucers of pickle-like and preserve preparations, popular amongst the Malays as appetisers, but quite needless in Ned’s case, for he was perfectly independent of anything of the kind, and after his curry and coffee, now the first chill of strangeness had passed, paid plenty of attention to the fruit pressed upon him by the doctor’s daughter. Now it was a deliciously-flavoured choice banana with a deep orange skin, now a mangosteen, and then a portion of a great durian, a scrap or two of which he ate with some reluctance.

“Hallo!” said the doctor after a glance at his daughter, “you are not getting on with your durian, sir. Pray take some more; it is our king among fruits.”

“I—I am afraid it is not a good one,” stammered Ned, looking rather red.

“Eh? not a good one?” cried the doctor, tasting a piece. “Delicious, just in perfect condition. Ah, you have to acquire that taste. Now then, the ladies will excuse us, and we’ll have a cigar here in the shade.”

He clapped his hands, and one of the Malay women brought a box of manillas.

“No, I don’t think I’ll smoke,” said Murray. “You will not think me rude, but if you will excuse us, and put us in the way of getting what we want, I should be grateful.”

“My dear sir,” said the doctor, “you must see our other English residents. They are only waiting to give us time to finish our meal, and really you cannot go as yet.”

“Indeed!” said Murray, smiling, and noticing that the ladies both looked serious.

“Well, you see,” said the doctor rather confusedly—“do pray light a cigar, I’ll set you an example—you see there is the rajah.”

Ned looked up sharply at the doctor, and then darted a look of intelligence at his daughter.

“What about him?” said Murray abruptly.

“Well, you see,” said the doctor, hesitatingly, “he might think—but you are going shooting and collecting, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you ought to ask his permission.”

“What!” said Murray, laughing. “My dear sir, you talk as if this were a gentleman’s estate, and he kept gamekeepers.”

“Well, yes,” said the doctor, smiling; “it is so on a large scale.”

“How far does it extend? We will not begin shooting till we are quite beyond his patch.”

“How far?” said the doctor thoughtfully. “Ah, that is a difficult question to answer. It was hard to say before the late encounters with the Rajah of Padang; now the territory is more than doubled. I think you had better send in a request. Ah, here is Braine!”

“And Mrs Braine and Mr Greig,” added the doctor’s lady, rising from her chair.

This ended the conversation, just when Ned saw that his uncle was growing annoyed at the doctor’s opposition to his plans, and he glanced round to see that his neighbour was looking at him intently.

“I thought you would not be able to go away to-day,” she whispered, as she rose and went with her mother to meet the visitors at the foot of the steps, the doctor having made an apology and gone too.

“What did that young lady say to you, Ned?” said his uncle in a low tone.

“She thought there would be some difficulty in our going on to-day.”

“Oh, nonsense! These people lead an idle life, and they want every one they see to stop and play with them. I don’t want to be rude, but we are not going to dawdle about here; and as for this petty chief—all rubbish!”

At that moment a tall stern-looking man, in loose white clothes and a pith helmet, came up the steps. His face was darkened almost to the tint of a Malay’s, and he had a quick anxious look in his eyes, which, with his rather hollow cheeks, gave him the aspect of one who had lately been ill. He advanced with open hand.

“Glad to meet you, Mr Murray,” he said. “It is a pleasure to see a countryman.”

“That speech will do for me too,” said a rather harsh voice, and a keen-looking gentleman of about fifty, with his face deeply lined and a quick expression and manner which at once stamped him as shrewd, now shook hands warmly with the new arrivals, while directly after a subdued, handsome-looking woman was led up by the doctor’s lady.

“Let me introduce you two,” said the hostess. “Mrs Braine is an ardent botanist, Mr Murray, and I’m sure that you will enjoy a chat together. She knows all our flowering plants here by heart.”

“I am very pleased to meet Mr Murray,” said the newcomer in a sweet sad voice. “I hope he will let me be his guide to some of the nooks on the river-bank, where the jungle can be penetrated.”

“I should only be too glad, my dear madam,” said Murray; “and I can find no words to express my thanks—our thanks, I should say—for your cordial reception here of a perfect stranger; but my nephew and I have only put in to buy a bag of rice and some fruit to replenish our stores, and we are going on directly.”

Murray ceased speaking, and looked sharply from one to the other, for he had seen Mr Braine raise his eyebrows and glance at the doctor and the shrewd keen-looking man. The doctor laughed, and took up the cigar box.

“Have a smoke, Braine?” he said.

“Thanks,” was the reply; and the newcomer took a cheroot in the midst of a rather constrained silence.

“I hope I have not said anything wrong,” continued Murray, who felt piqued at the manners of those about him, for the ladies began talking together in a subdued tone.

“Oh dear me, no!” said Mr Braine hastily. “You are shooting and collecting, I think?”

“We have not begun yet,” replied Murray, quickly; “but that is why we have come.”

There was another pause.

“I am afraid you will give me the credit of being somewhat of a bear,” continued Murray, “and really, Doctor Barnes, I am most grateful to you and your charming wife and daughter for your hospitality.”

“Oh, pray, say no more,” said Mrs Barnes. “You confer a favour on us by coming, though you have given us no English news as yet.”

“And I am afraid, my dear madam, that I shall have time to give you very little. At the risk of being considered rude, I must ask you to excuse us now.”

The doctor frowned and looked at Mr Braine, who glanced in turn at the shrewd elderly man, and he immediately searched for a silver snuff-box, and then spent a great deal of time over taking a pinch.

“Really, gentlemen,” said Murray, quickly, “all this is very strange. I can hardly think you credit me with rudeness in being hurried.”

“Oh no, Mr Murray, not at all,” said the doctor’s lady.—“Mr Braine, why do you not explain?”

“Well, really,” said that gentleman, “I thought an explanation should come from you as the host and hostess, but I will do my best.—The fact is, Mr Murray, this country is something like the west coast of Scotland in the old days, when every chief had his stronghold.”

“Oh yes, I have noted that,” said Murray, smiling; “and I see that they have both the plaid and dirk, though you call them sarong and kris.”

“Exactly. Well, my dear sir, the chief, rajah, prince, or whatever you like to call him, is omnipotent here.”

“Not always, Mr Braine,” said the doctor’s lady, merrily. “I think my husband rules over the rajah.”

“Only when he is ill, my dear, and he is the most refractory patient I ever had.”

“And you see there is a certain etiquette to be observed here,” continued Mr Braine. “We would do everything we could to help you to procure your provisions, and say God speed to your journey, but we are helpless.”

“Indeed!” said Murray, flushing. “You mean that as we have come we must ask the rajah’s permission to go: I shall do nothing of the kind. Gentlemen, we will start at once.”

Mr Braine made a deprecatory sign,—

“Excuse me,” he said. “You speak like one of us—like an Englishman, but my good sir, this is not England, and we are beyond the range of the law courts and the police. I say this is not England, nor is it Singapore. We are not many hundred miles from where the English rule is well in force, but here, to all intents and purposes, we are completely in the power of a barbarous chief.”

“But this is absurd!” cried Murray; “surely the Governor of the Straits Settlements would crush out any piece of oppression directly, or any outrage on a British subject.”

Mr Braine smiled.

“The British lion is very strong, sir,” he said; “but he is well fed and drowsy. He knows that he has only to lift his paw, or perhaps only to lash his tail, to get rid of troublesome animals or stinging insects, but it is very hard to get him to do this. No doubt if Rajah Sadi were to behave very badly, the war-steamer on the station here would come up the river as far as she could, and then send an expedition in boats with plenty of jacks and marines, and perhaps a few soldiers, but not until there had been a great deal of red-tape unwound, declarations sent to and from London, and perhaps a year would have passed before the help came. Then the rajah would be punished, if they could catch him, and his stockade and village be burned. But most probably he would know from his people when the expedition was coming, and mount his elephants with his court, and go right away into the jungle, after sending his prahus and other boats up one of the side-streams where they could hide. Then the expedition would return and so would the rajah; the bamboo houses would be rebuilt, and matters go on just as before.”

“You are making out a very bad case, sir,” said Murray, biting his lip to keep down his annoyance, “but I shall not hesitate as to my plans.”

“You mean that you will go on at once?”

“Certainly,” said Murray; “and let them try to stop us if they dare.”

“Humph!” said Mr Braine, raising his brows a little. “You doubt then the likelihood of the rajah’s people interfering with you?”

“Excuse me for seeming rude to you in my incredulity, but I do doubt this.”

Mr Braine smiled again.

“I presume,” he said, “that when your boat came up you were boarded by the rajah’s naga.”

“Yes.”

“And you saw that she had a well-armed crew?”

“I noticed that the men all wore their krises, and that spears were hanging in slings from the covered-in part.”

“Exactly. That boat boards every vessel that goes up or down the river, and all pay tax or toll to the lord of this district, and have to await his permission before they can stir.”

“Then,” said Murray, sharply, “you consider that we are prisoners?”

“No; I do not go so far as that, but you are in the realm of a petty independent prince, who is something of a despot, and for your own sake you must submit to the customs of the country.”

“But this is ridiculous!” cried Murray, angrily. “Ladies, forgive me for being so abrupt, but people from the old country resent coercion in every form. I’ll be as polite to your rajah as a gentleman should be, but I am not going to have my plans upset by a savage. Ned, my lad, we’ll see if they dare interfere with us.”

“I beg you will do nothing rashly,” said Mr Braine, for Murray took a step toward the ladies, and held out his hand smilingly.

“Good-bye,” he said frankly. “I am going some distance up the river, but I hope you will let me make your acquaintance again on our return.”

“You are not gone yet, Mr Murray,” said the doctor, shortly; “and I advise you, sir, to practise prudence for both your sakes. As I expected, here are the rajah’s people; I thought that they would not be long.”

Chapter Five.

Before the Rajah.

At the same moment that the doctor was speaking, Ned had caught sight of something glittering in the sun above the green shrubs that bordered the bamboo fence, and directly after that there was quite a blaze of yellow and scarlet colour as a party of Malays reached the gate and entered the grounds, a little group of swarthy-looking spearmen halting in the path, while two stately-looking men, with handkerchiefs tied turban fashion about their heads, came slowly up to the steps. The doctor descended to meet them, and then ushered them into the verandah where they saluted the ladies courteously, and then bowed gravely to the strangers, to whom they were introduced as two of the chief officers of the rajah in the most formal way; after which, as a brief conversation took place in the Malay tongue, and gave Ned the opportunity to examine their silken jackets and gay kilt-like sarongs in which were stuck their krises with the handles covered by the twisted folds, the doctor turned to Murray.

“These gentlemen,” he said, “have been sent by his highness the rajah to ask why you have come here, and to desire your presence before him.”

“Tell them,” said Murray, “that I am sorry I cannot speak their tongue; and that as I am going on at once, I beg the rajah will excuse me from waiting upon him.”

“My dear sir,” whispered Mr Braine; but Murray flushed a little, and went on:

“Tell the rajah, please, that I am an English gentleman, a subject of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, travelling with my nephew to collect objects of natural history, and that I shall be obliged if he will give me a safe conduct to pass through his country unmolested by his people.”

An answer to this was made at once by the elder and more grave-looking of the two Malays, showing that, though he spoke in his own language to the doctor, he had comprehended every word that had been said.

The doctor listened, and then interpreted again to Murray.

“The Tumongong desires me to say that he is sure his highness will be glad to further your wishes, but that he dare not go back and deliver such a message. You will excuse me for saying so, Mr Murray, but you must obey, and at once.”

“And suppose I refuse, sir?” said Murray, warmly. “British gentlemen are not accustomed to be told that they must.”

“No,” said the doctor, smiling, “and do not like it; but there are times when Englishmen and Scotchmen find that they must submit to circumstances—eh, Braine?—eh, Greig?”

“Oh yes,” said the merchant, taking out his snuff-box, opening it, and offering it to each of the Malay gentlemen, who bowed gravely, and took a pinch.

“It is not pleasant, I know, sir,” said Mr Braine quietly; “but may I, as a fellow-countryman, offer you a little advice?”

“Of course.”

“Then pray go, sir. And, excuse me for saying, it would be uncourteous not to obey the summons. Vous parlez Français?” he added quietly.

“Yes, badly.”

“Croyez moi: il faut.”

Ned noticed a slight twitching of the Tumongong’s facial muscles, and an intent look in his eyes, as if he were trying to understand the last words, which puzzled him.

“I am at his highness’s service,” said Murray, abruptly. “Come Ned, you may as well come too.”

The chief officer smiled gravely, and placed himself beside Murray, his companion following his example, and walking up to Ned. Then they both bowed politely to the ladies, and signed to the visitors to go toward the steps.

“You are coming, then?” said Murray, as he saw Mr Braine step forward.

“I? Oh yes. You will want an interpreter,” said the gentleman addressed.

“Excuse me a moment,” said Murray, addressing the Malay chief.—“Ladies, I’ll say good-bye once more, and thank you heartily for your kindness to us.”

“You can do that later on,” said the doctor, quietly. “If you do go to-day, of course we shall come and see you off.”

“To be sure. Thank you,” said Murray smiling.—“Now, gentlemen, I am at your service. I see that you speak English.”

“Understand? yes,” said the chief officer; “speak? no.”

By this time they were in the garden, the group of swarthy spearmen standing back in line with military precision, and holding their weapons at the salute as the party passed them, and then falling in behind to march after them in a way which showed that they had been carefully drilled.

“Come, Ned,” said Murray, as they passed out of the gate, “don’t look so serious, lad; they are not leading us out to execution.”

“Did I look serious, uncle?” said the boy merrily. “I was not thinking that, but of our clothes.”

“Eh, what about them, lad?”

“That they look very rough and shabby beside these grand dresses. We hardly seem lit to go to court.”

“Not our fault, boy. It is a special invitation,” replied Murray merrily.—“We must study up the Malay language so as to be independent, Mr Braine.”

“I should advise you to master it as soon as you can,” said that gentleman, who was now walking beside them as they threaded their way in and out among the houses, where every now and then they could catch a glimpse of a pair of eyes watching them, though the people they passed took not the slightest notice of them, or just glanced, turned their betel-nut in their mouths, and went on chewing it with their eyes half-closed, as if the coming of strangers was not of the slightest importance to them.

“Is it far to the palace?” asked Murray, giving Ned a quaint look.

“Just beyond those houses, and amongst the group of trees you can see over their roofs,” said Mr Braine; and he then turned and spoke to the officers, who replied to him in Malay.

“His highness is waiting to give you audience,” he continued. “Mr Murray, I do not like to force advice upon a stranger, but I should like to say, for your own sake and that of your young friend, try to accept the position in which you find yourself, however hard it may be. And,” he added in a whisper, looking sharply at Ned, “whatever you see, do not laugh. Eastern gentlemen are extremely sensitive to ridicule.”

“I shall not laugh,” said Ned quietly; and then he began thinking about the punctilious ways of his companions till they had passed the last houses, entered a patch of forest, and from that came suddenly upon a clearing where a spacious bamboo house stood half hidden by a clump of umbrageous trees, beneath one of which was drawn up a group which at the first glance made the boy wonder whether he was gazing at a scene in real life, or some imaginary picture from an eastern tale.

The first figure upon which Ned’s eyes rested was seated in the centre of the group, on a quaintly made stool, and his gorgeous dress immediately suggested that this must be the great man himself whom they had come to see. For he was evidently got up expressly for the occasion, with his courtiers carefully arranged about him, some standing behind and on either side, but for the most part squatted down on the sandy ground in the position affected by eastern people, though here and there one could be seen right down cross-legged à la turque.

The rajah was the only one in European costume, and at the first glance at the man, with his heavy fat sensual-looking face and lurid eyes, Ned recalled his companion’s words: “Whatever you see, do not laugh.”

He felt at once the value of the advice, as his eye ran over the chief’s costume, for he was gorgeously arrayed in a military tunic and trousers undoubtedly made in London to order, the tailor having had instructions to prepare for his highness a dress that would be striking and impressive, and from this point of view he had done his work well. The trousers were blue with gold stripes, of the most elaborate floral pattern, such as decorate levee uniforms; and, after the fashion of our most gaily-dressed hussars of fifty years ago, there were wonderful specimens of embroidery part of the way down the front of the thigh. But the tunic was the dazzling part of the show, for it was of the regular military scarlet, and was neither that of field-marshal, dragoon, nor hussar, but a combination of all three, frogged, roped, and embroidered in gold, and furnished with a magnificent pair of twisted epaulets. Across the breast was a gorgeous belt, one mass of gold ornamentation, while the sword-belt and slings were similarly encrusted, and the sabre and sheath—carefully placed between his legs, so that it could be seen to the best advantage—was a splendid specimen of the goldsmiths’ and sword-cutlers’ art, and would have been greatly admired in a museum. To complete the effect, the rajah wore an Astrakan busby, surmounted by a tall scarlet egret-plume, similar to that worn by a horse-artillery officer of the British army, the cap being corded, starred, and held in place by a golden chain cheek-strap.

The effect ought to have been most striking, and so it was in one way; but it was spoiled by the presence of a jetty-black Malay attendant, dressed in an ordinary dark paletôt and military-looking cap, holding over the rajah’s head a white sun umbrella of common cotton, and the fact patent to any Englishman, that the uniform must have been ordered without the customary visit to the tailor, the result destroying everything with the horribly striking truth that it did not fit!

Ned bit his tongue hard, and gazed to right and left at the swarthy courtiers of the monarch, six of whom were squatted down in the front row, some in little military caps, others in brilliant kerchiefs tied turban fashion about their heads, and all wearing brilliant silken sarongs. These were the rajah’s sword-bearers, and each held by the ornamental sheath a kris or parang of singular workmanship, with the hilt resting against the right shoulder. The rest of the rajah’s people were picturesquely arranged, and in their native dress looked to a man far better than their ruler, who was the incongruous spot in the group, which was impressive enough to an English lad, with its lurid fierce-looking faces and dark oily eyes peering from the mass of yellow and scarlet, while everywhere, though with the hilt covered by the folds of the sarong, could be made out the fact that each man carried at his waist a deadly-looking kris.

All this was seen at a glance as they advanced, and Ned had thoroughly crushed down the desire to laugh at the dark potentate, when his uncle nearly made him explode by whispering: “Make your fortune, Ned. Buy the whole party for Madame Tussaud’s.”

He was saved from a horrible breach of court etiquette by the two officials advancing, bowing low to the rajah, and making a short speech to his highness, who nodded and scowled while the guard of spearmen formed up in a row behind, and Mr Braine saluted in military fashion, and went and stood half behind at the rajah’s left elbow, listened to something the great man said, and then looked at the two visitors.

“His highness bids me say that you are welcome to his court.”

“We thank his highness,” said Murray, frankly. Then to Ned: “Do as I do;” and he advanced and held out his hand.

There was a slight movement amongst the sword-bearers and officials, and a dozen fierce-looking men seemed ready to spring forward at this display of equality. But the rajah did not resent it; he smiled, rose, and took the extended hands in turn, making his plume vibrate and his busby topple forward, so that it dropped right off, and would have fallen in the dust but for the activity of Ned. He caught it and returned it to the wearer, who frowned with annoyance as he replaced it in its proper position.

“Dank you,” he said, quite surlily, and he shook hands now. “How der doo?”

This last word was prolonged with quite a growl.

“Quite well, and glad to pay our compliments to your highness,” said Murray.

The rajah’s brow puckered, and he stared heavily, first at his visitors and then at Mr Braine, for he had reached the end of his English.

That individual came to his rescue, however, and after a few formal compliments had passed, with the people all listening in stolid silence, Murray requested through his interpreter permission to pass on through the rajah’s country.

This brought forth a series of questions as to what the visitors would collect, and answers respecting birds, animals, and plants.

The rajah listened to the answers, and then said something eagerly to Mr Braine.

“His highness wishes to know if you understand anything about minerals and metals,” said the latter.

“Yes, I have made mineralogy and geology something of a study,” replied Murray; and this being interpreted, the rajah spoke again for some little time with more animation than might have been expected from so heavy and dull a man.

“I’m getting tired of this, Ned,” whispered Murray.

“Oh, it’s worth seeing, uncle. It will be something to talk about when we get home.”

“Yes, boy; but I want nature, not art of this kind.”

“Mr Murray,” said their interpreter just then, after clearing his voice with a cough, as if to get rid of something which tickled his throat, and drawing him and Ned aside, “his highness desires me to say that he, is very glad to welcome to his court so eminent a naturalist.”

“My dear Mr Braine,” said Murray, interrupting, “we are fellow-countrymen. Never mind the flowery part; let’s have the plain English of it all.”

“My dear fellow, I am translating almost verbatim. His highness says that he has long wished to see a gentleman of your attainments, for he is anxious to have his country explored, so that the valuable metals, precious stones, and vegetable productions may be discovered. He says that you are very welcome, and that a house shall be placed at your disposal, with slaves and guards and elephants for expeditions through the jungle to the mountains. One of his dragon boats will also be placed at your service for expeditions up the river, and he wishes you every success in the discoveries you will make for him.”

“For him!” said Murray, looking bewildered; “but I want to make them for myself, and for the institutions with which I am connected in London.”

“Yes; it is very awkward,” said Mr Braine.

“Tell him I am highly flattered, but I must go on to-day.—Well, go on: speak to him.”

“I cannot. I dare not.”

“Then I will.”

“But you can’t; you do not know his language.”

“Then I’ll show him in pantomime.”

“My dear sir, pray do nothing rash. I understand this chief and his people. You are quite strange to their ways. I beg you for your own sakes to accept the position.”

“But it is making prisoners of us, sir. English people are not accustomed to such treatment. I will not be forced to stay.”

“My dear Mr Murray, you are losing your temper,” said Mr Braine. “Just let me, as a man of some experience out here, remind you of what, in cooler moments, you must know: I mean the necessity for being diplomatic with eastern people. Now pray look here. I know how annoying all this is; but on the other hand, you will have facilities for carrying on your researches such as you could not create for yourself.”

“Yes; but I do not like to be forced.”

“I know that. It is most objectionable.”

“And I see through him as plainly as can be: he wants me to find out gold, or tin and precious stones, and other things for his benefit. It is degrading to a scientific man.”

“You are perfectly right; but I must speak plainly. This man has perfect confidence in his own power, and he rules here like the Czar of Russia. My dear sir, be guided by me. You have no alternative. You cannot leave here, and he will have no hesitation whatever in imprisoning you if you refuse. Come, accept his proposal with a good grace, for your own and your nephew’s sake—I may add for the sake of the follow country-folk you have met here to-day.”

“But my good sir,” said Murray angrily, “this idea of forcing me makes me the more indignant and obstinate.”

“Yes; but forget all that in the cause of science.”

Murray smiled.

“You are a clever diplomat, Mr Braine,” he said. “Well I give way, for, as you say, there is no alternative.”

“That’s right,” said Mr Braine eagerly, “and I hope you will not regret it. There, the rajah is growing impatient. He must not think you have spoken like this. I shall tell him that you have been stipulating for abundance of help.”

“I do stipulate for that.”

“And freedom to pursue your investigations in every direction.”

“Yes; I stipulate for that too.”

For some time past the rajah had been frowning, and loosening his sabre in its scabbard and clapping it down again, while Ned noticed that, as if anticipating an unpleasant reminder of their master’s anger, the people right and left squatted and stood like statues, gazing straight before them. But when Mr Braine left the two strangers, and went back to the fierce-looking chief and made a long communication, which he had dressed up so as to gloss over the long consultation and Murray’s defiant manner, the rajah’s face lit up, and showed his satisfaction, the courtiers and attendants relaxed, and began to chew their betel. Ned even thought he heard a faint sigh of relief rise from the group, as Mr Braine bowed and returned to where the newcomers were standing.

“You have acted very wisely, Mr Murray,” he said. “Come now, his highness wishes to speak to you.”

Murray could hardly crush down the feeling of resentment which troubled him, but he walked up with Ned quietly enough, and stood waiting and trying to attach a meaning to the words which the rajah said, feeling how valuable some knowledge of the language would be, and hardly hearing Mr Braine’s interpretation.

“His highness bids me say that he will be most happy to meet your wishes with respect to accommodation, and freedom to explore.”

The rajah spoke again.

“And that boats, elephants, and men to clear a path through the jungle, are to be at your service.”

There was another speech in Malay, which Mr Braine did not interpret, apparently for the reason that the rajah now rose from his stool, and took a step forward to tap both Murray and Ned on the shoulder, standing looking from one to the other, and rolling his great quid of betel-nut in his cheeks as he tried to recall something he wanted to say.

At last a smile came upon his heavy features.

“Goooood—boyahs,” he said thickly. Then, drawing himself up, he stood fast, holding the scabbard of his sword in his left hand, threw his right over and grasped the hilt, and then in strict military fashion evidently, as he had been drilled by an instructor, he drew his sword, saluted, replaced the blade, faced to the right, marched a dozen paces; faced to the right again, and marched toward his bamboo and palm palace, the loose fit of his tunic and the bagginess of his trousers showing off to the worst advantage, till he was covered by his followers, who also marched after him mechanically, sword-bearers, men carrying a golden betel-box and golden spittoon, courtiers, and spearmen. At last all were either in or close up to the house, only the two Malay chiefs, who had fetched the strangers from the doctor’s bungalow, remaining behind.

These two came up to them smiling in the most friendly way, just as Murray said: “What about our boat and the men?”

“Oh, they will be all right,” replied Mr Braine.

“But the men? Am I to send them back?”

“No; his highness desires that they stay.”

Just then the chief who had been spoken of as the Tumongong—a kind of chief counsellor—made some remark to Mr Braine, who nodded.

“These gentlemen,” he said, “wish me to say that they hope we shall all be very good friends, and that they will see the rajah’s wishes carried out as to your comfort.”

“And our guns and things in the boat?”

The Tumongong spoke at once.

“You are not to make yourself uneasy. Everything will be right.”

Then profound salaams were exchanged, and the Malays went toward the rajah’s house, while the Englishmen took the way that led to the doctor’s.

“I am beaten, Mr Braine,” said Murray, rather bitterly. “I said I would go.”

“You have acted very wisely, sir.”

“Humph! Well, perhaps so,” said Murray, rather gruffly. “Here we are then, Ned: prisoners in the cause of science we’ll call it.—But it seems to me, Mr Braine, that if we do not mind our P’s and Q’s, we shall be prisoners indeed.”

Mr Braine made no reply, but his looks seemed to endorse the other’s words.

Chapter Six.

Making the best of it.

“Ned,” said Mr Murray, as they reached the doctor’s, “run and tell the boatmen we are going to stay,” and Ned started off.

The boatmen did not seem in the least degree surprised upon Ned announcing to them that they were to stay for the present. “It is kismet—fate,” said Hamet, calmly.

“I could have told ye that before,” said a voice; and, looking up, Ned saw the good-humoured sun-browned face of the Irishman just projecting over the edge of the bamboo jetty, where he lay upon his chest smoking a pipe.

“Hullo! I’d forgotten you,” said Ned, who had come down very thoughtful and dull.

“Faix, and I hadn’t forgotten you. Didn’t ye tell me to mind your duds and things in the boat, sor?”

“They did; I didn’t. I say, if you knew that we should stay, why didn’t you— But never mind.”

The man gave him a droll look.

“There ye needn’t mind spaking out,” he said. “I know. The old ’un won’t let ye go away again.”

“You know him?” said Ned excitedly.

“Av course I do. He niver lets any one go that he wants to stay.”

“Then why didn’t you, an Englishman—Irishman, I mean—”

“That’s better, sor, though any one would hardly know me for an Irishman by my spache. Sure there are times when I haven’t a bit of brogue left. It’s the sun dhries it out of me, I think.”

“But why didn’t you warn us?”

“Because there’d a been a regular shaloo if I had. The other gintleman would have told your men here to pull away, and the dhragon boat would have been afther ye shying shpears, and you’d have been shuting, and the end would have been that ye’d been hurt; and think o’ that now.”

“But we should have rowed right away.”

“Divil a bit. They’d soon have caught ye or been firing their brass lalys at yez.”

“What’s a brass laly?” said Ned.

“Get out wid ye, sor: poking fun at me. Who said a wurrud about lalys? I said lalys.”

“Well, so did I.”

“Not a bit of it; ye said lalys.”

“So did you.”

“Not I. I said laly.”

“Spell it then.”

“Is it shpell it. Well then, l-e-l-a-h, laly. It’s a big brass blunderbush thing on a shwivel. There’s two of ’em on each of their prahus, and they send a ball about two pound-weight sometimes, and other times a couple o’ handfuls of old bits o’ broken iron, and nubbles o’ tin, and shtones. Annythin whin they’re spiteful.”

“But do you mean to say they’d have dared to fire at a boat with two Englishmen in it—I mean a man and a boy?” cried Ned, flushing.

“Oh, don’t go aiting yer wurruds like that, lad. Shure ye’ve got the sperret of a man in ye, if ye’re not shix feet high. An’ is it fire at a boat with Englishmen in it? Why, I belave they’d shute at one with Irishmen in, and I can’t say more than that.”

“Then we’ve rowed right into a nest of Malay pirates?”

“Oh no. You people at home might call ’em so, perhaps, but the old un’s jist a rale Malay gintleman—a rajah as lives here in his own country, and takes toll of iverything that goes up and down. Sure, we do it at home; only gintalely, and call it taxes and rates and customs. And they’ve got customs of the country here.”

“But, I say,” said Ned, as he found that he was getting a deeper insight into their position, “the rajah will soon let us go?”

“Will he?”

“Come, answer me. How long will he want us to stay?”

“Oh, for iver, I should say, or as much of it as ye can conthrive to live.”

“You’re making fun of me,” said Ned, frowning. “But look here; you are not prisoners.”

“Prishoners? No. Isn’t the masther the rajah’s owen chief docthor, and Mr Braine his prime-minister, field-marshal, and commander-in-chief.”

“Then you people could go when you liked?”

“Oh no. Divil a bit. The old un’s so fond of us, he won’t let us shtir, and he always sends four dark gintlemen wid shpears if I think I’d like to go for a walk.”

“Then you are all prisoners?”

“Don’t I tell ye no, sor. They don’t call it by that name, but we can’t go away.”

“Oh, but this is abominable!” cried Ned, looking in the dry, humorous face before him.

“Ye’ll soon get used to it, sor. But just a frindly wurrud. I’d be civil, for they’ve an ugly way of handling things here, being savage-like. There isn’t a wan among ’em as knows the vartue of a bit o’ blackthorn, but they handle their shpears dangerously, and ivery man’s got his nasty ugly skewer in his belt—you know, his kris—and it’s out wid it, and ructions before ye know where ye are.”

“Yes; I saw that every man had his kris,” said Ned, thoughtfully. “But can you stay and look after the boat?”

“Didn’t the masther say I was to. But nobody would dare to touch a thing here. Here he is.”

Ned turned sharply, and saw a little party approaching, consisting of Mr Braine, the doctor, and Murray, with the Tumongong at their side.

“Tim,” said the doctor, “you can superintend here. The men are to carry everything in the boat up to the house next but one to ours.”

“The one close to the trees, sor?”

“Yes. You will not want any other help. But mind that the boat is properly made fast.”

“Shall I stay too, uncle?” asked Ned.

“No; come with me, and let’s see our new quarters.”

They were in the act of starting when the Malay chief by their side held up his hand to arrest them, looking along the river with eager eyes, where a boat, similar to the one which had first come alongside their own, could be seen approaching fast, half filled with men, eight of whom were working vigorously at the oars, while half a dozen more sat beneath the awning, with the blades of their spears thrust out at the sides, and glittering in the sun.

“Have they got him, I wonder?” said the doctor half aloud.

“Got whom?” asked Murray.

“A Malay who offended the rajah by a serious breach, and broke out of his prison about five days ago.” He added a few words in the Malayan tongue to the Tumongong, who responded.

“Yes, they’ve got the poor wretch,” said the doctor. “Well, he was a bad scoundrel. Let’s stop and see them land.”

The second dragon boat was rowed quickly up to the jetty, the oars laid in, and the armed men landed, and stood ready while the rowers lifted out a savagely defiant-looking man, whose wrists and ankles were heavily chained. Then a couple of more showily-dressed Malays stepped out, a little procession was formed, and the prisoner was then led, with his chains clanking and dragging in the dust, away toward the rajah’s residence, the Tumongong talking rapidly to the fresh comers for a few minutes, and then rejoining the Englishmen to walk with them to the neat-looking house set apart for the enforced visitors.

They went up the steps, to find the place light, cool, and rather dark, coming as they did out of the glare of the sun; but as their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, it was to see that the place was neatly covered with matting, and that there was a darker inner room with more mats, evidently intended for sleeping.

“I should hardly have expected that you had houses to let,” said Murray, who, now that their position was unavoidable, seemed bent on removing any bad impression made by his rather warm display of temper.

“We have none,” said the doctor. “This is the house of one of the minor chiefs, and he has been sent elsewhere.”

“But really—I would rather—oh, we can make shift in a humbler place than this.”

“It is the rajah’s orders that you should come here, and we are all bound to obey him.”

“Oh, very well. Then we will obey,” said Murray. “Look, Ned, here are our traps already. But one moment, Doctor Braine, are our men to stay here too?”

The doctor turned to the chief, who said quietly: “The man who is their servant is to stay. The others will have a house to themselves.”

The next hour was spent in arranging their boxes and arms, Hamet assisting and calmly taking to his new quarters, as if nothing in nature could surprise him, and when all was done, Ned looked round eagerly.

“Come, uncle,” he said; “it isn’t such a bad place after all.”

“No; far better than I expected, but it wants one thing.”

“What’s that, uncle?”

“Liberty to do what we like, boy. If we had that, we could congratulate ourselves.”

“Well, try and think that you really have it,” said the doctor. “There now, what do you say to coming up to my place to rest till dinner-time? Braine has promised to come.”

Murray hesitated, but the doctor would take no denial, and leaving Hamet in charge of the place, they descended to find that the Tumongong, who had left them for a time, was again back, in company with the other officer.

These made a communication to the doctor, who nodded, and the two officers then bowed gravely, and went away.

“Message for you,” said the doctor. “You are requested—”

“Ordered,” said Murray, drily.

“Well, ordered, not to leave the village without asking permission, so that you may have an escort; but you are quite at liberty to go anywhere you please about the place.”

“Ah, well,” said Murray, “I am not going to complain any more to-day. I have made myself a nuisance enough. Hallo, Ned, here comes your saucy young Malay friend.”

Ned looked sharply round, the doctor having stepped forward hurriedly to speak to one of the Malays seated on the steps of his house, and there, sure enough, was the gaily-dressed lad they had seen that morning, followed by his companion of the boat carrying a basket and the rod the first had used.

They saw them pass on, to be hidden directly by the trees, and they were still watching the place when the doctor returned.

“Sorry to have left you,” he said. “One of my patients—he was mauled badly in a tiger-hunt, but he is coming round nicely now.”

Ned pricked up his ears at the words tiger-hunt, and feeling more satisfied now with his new quarters, he followed the doctor into his garden, and then up the broad steps to the shady verandah, where a pleasant evening was spent, the dinner capitally served, Tim Driscol, now very neatly attired in white, waiting at table, and giving the scene quite a flavour of home. Then there were cigars and excellent coffee for the gentlemen, and a delightful long chat with the ladies beneath the shaded lamp which hung from one of the bamboo rafters, the doctor’s daughter readily answering Ned’s questions about their life and the natural history of the place. Of the former, he learned that the doctor had been persuaded while at Malacca to accept the post through the Tumongong, who was there on some kind of embassy. The terms had been tempting, and it had been arranged that he was to take his wife and daughter with him, all hesitation vanishing when the Malay chief introduced him to Mr Braine, who accepted his post directly he found that he would have the society of an Englishman, and in the end he too had brought his family. Their reception had been most cordial, and they had only to ask for any addition to their comfort to have it instantly granted by the rajah. He would give them everything, in fact, but liberty.

“Then you are quite prisoners too?” said Ned, who had listened to all this with the greatest of interest.

“I suppose so. Both papa and Mr Braine were furious at first, and said that they would never forgive the Tumongong for having tricked them, but he said it was the rajah’s orders, and that he dared not have come back without a doctor, and an officer who could drill the men. And really he was so kind, and has always been such a good friend when the rajah has been in one of his mad fits, that we have all ended by liking him.”

“But to be prisoners like this!” said Ned.

“Oh, we seldom think about it now. Papa says we shall never be so well off again, and the rajah, who nearly kills himself with indulgence, has such bad health that he can hardly bear to see the doctor out of his sight, and consequently papa has immense influence over him.”

“But I could never settle down to being a prisoner,” cried Ned.

“Till you grow used to it. Oh, don’t mind; it is a whim of the rajah’s, and you will soon have leave to go. We never shall. There, hark! what did I say?”

She held up her hand, and Ned leaned forward, peering out into the darkness as the low distant cry of a wild beast was heard.

“Is that a tiger?”

“Yes, and it is so common that we scarcely notice it now. They never come into the village; but of course it would be terribly dangerous anywhere beyond the houses.”

Ned still leaned forward listening, as the cry was repeated, and then, in a low voice, he said: “Look, just where the light of the lamp shines faintly, I thought I saw the gleam of a spear. Can you see it?”

“Oh yes! two—three,” replied the girl, quickly. “There are more.”

“But what are armed men doing there?”

“Don’t you know?”

“No.”

“They are your guard. But you need not take any notice of them. Of course they will follow you about, and keep watch over your house, but they will never speak to you, or seem watching, unless you are straying too far.”

“This is pleasant,” said Ned, wiping his forehead.

“Oh, you will not mind after a day or two, and it is best: for it really is dangerous for an Englishman to be up here unless he is under the protection of the rajah.”

The pleasant evening came to a close, and after a friendly parting from their hosts, the two fresh additions to the rajah’s village walked back, Ned declaring that he could easily make out their house, and they smiled, passed out of the gate, and without catching a glimpse of either of the Malays on guard, they reached their own abode, where a shaded lamp was forming an attraction to the insects of the jungle, and Hamet was patiently awaiting their return.

“What a strange experience, Ned,” said Murray, as they stood at the top of their steps, watching the bright stars and the fireflies which were gliding about among the low growth at the edge of the jungle, of which they caught a glimpse hard by.

“But it is very beautiful and soft,” said Ned, thoughtfully. “What a lovely night!”

“Yes; not much like being in prison, is it?”

“No,” said Ned; but, as he gazed, he could see the shadowy form of one of the guards, a fact which he did not mention, though the fact of the proximity of armed men seemed strange in connection with his uncle’s next words.

“We will not tug at the tether for a few days or weeks, Ned,” he said. “I daresay we shall get some rare collecting, and when we are tired, we’ll slip down to the boat some night and get right away. Hamet, I daresay, could manage that.”

“He would do his best, sir,” said the Malay, gravely.

“Then now for a good comfortable snooze on those clean mats, for I’m tired out. Come along, Ned. Good-night, Hamet. Where do you sleep?”

“Across the door, sahib,” said the man, who bore the lamp into the sleeping chamber, and then stretched himself across the entrance.

“You can sleep too, Ned,” said Murray, yawning as he threw himself on his simple couch.

“No, uncle,” said Ned. “I am going to lie and think a bit.”

“Bah! Sleep, boy. It is only a bit of an adventure after all. Heigho-ha-hum! Good-night.”

“Good-night, uncle,” said Ned, as he too lay down, hearing the distant cry of a tiger through the mat-screened door; and then he began thinking about the adventures of the past day, and how strange their position was.

Only began: for in spite of tigers, mosquitoes, and the fact that fierce-looking Malay spearmen were about the place, Ned’s waking moments were moments indeed, and only few. Certainly not a minute had elapsed before he was fast asleep.

Chapter Seven.

A Morning Walk.

When Ned Murray opened his eyes again, it was to gaze at the faint dawn which was making its way into the larger room; and he lay puzzled and wondering for a few minutes before he could quite make out where he was. Then it all came like a flash, and he looked across the room to dimly make out the figure of his uncle fast asleep.

Ned lay thinking for a few moments and then rose softly, ready dressed as he was, and stole out, with the bamboo flooring creaking beneath his feet.

At the top of the steps he found Hamet, and after a few words spoken in a whisper, Ned said: “I don’t suppose uncle will wake yet, but if he does, say I’m gone down to look at the river.”

The Malay nodded, and showed his white teeth, and Ned stepped quietly down, looking sharply round to have hard work to restrain a start, as he caught sight of four swarthy sentries standing spear in hand. But he ignored their presence, and walked slowly along, but only to be aware of the fact directly, that two of them were following quietly in his steps, and looking, as he glanced back once, with his hands in his pockets and whistling softly, singularly ghostly and strange.

For there was a heavy mist floating softly in the morning air, and as the boy slowly made his way among the houses, there was a feeling of chilliness that, in combination with the novelty of his position, made him shiver.

His intention was to have a look round the place; and, after a glance at the doctor’s house with its charming garden, he walked first in one direction and then in another, conscious of the fact that his two guards were always a short distance behind, but apparently bound on quite a different mission, for they never seemed to look at him once.

Suddenly he altered his mind, and turned back to have a look at the rajah’s own place, and in doing this he had to pass pretty close to the swarthy-looking spearmen, who merely drew back between two houses till he had passed, and followed as before.

“Two for uncle and two for me,” said Ned at last. “Well, I never knew that I had two shadows before.”

The light was getting a little clearer above the mist, which did not seem to rise above the tops of the cocoa-nut trees, and he had nearly reached the clump, in the midst of which was the clearing, when he suddenly noticed a dimly-seen figure glide out from among the trees, and another, and another—three who barred his farther advance.

“He has his guards too,” thought Ned, and he turned back with the intention of going as far as the jetty, and then returning to see if his uncle was awake, when there was a sharp clank-clink away to his left.

The sound was familiar, but he could not recall what it was, though it came nearer and nearer, apparently from down a lane of houses.

Then, all at once, he knew. For from out of the mist came the dark figures of half a dozen men bearing spears, and directly after, between two more, the prisoner he had seen brought in the previous day; and as he caught a glimpse of the dark face, he could see that the man was slowly chewing away at his betel-nut.

Six more spearmen followed, apparently led by an officer who marched erect behind the heavily-fettered prisoner, with one hand resting upon the handle of his kris.

No one heeded the boy, and the party marched on toward the river-side, when, under the impression that the man was being taken down to embark once more, and be sent up or down the river, Ned followed, and his guard came now more closely behind.

To Ned’s surprise, the leaders of the party turned off a little to the right, leaving the jetty on their left, and with it the smaller boats, but they were evidently making still for the river, and halted upon its bank, just in front of where, half hidden by the mist, the large prahu swung at her anchorage.

“They are going to hail a boat from the prahu and keep him imprisoned there,” thought Ned; and as he fancied this, he began to consider how safe a place it would be for a man, so heavily chained that any attempt at escape by swimming must mean being borne down by the weight of his fetters.

He walked close up, meaning to see the prisoner put on board the boat, but no one attempted to hail the prahu, and as Ned drew aside, he saw that the prisoner was led close to the edge of the swift river, which now began to look as if it were so much liquid opal, for bright hues of orange and purple began to gleam through the wreathing mist, and the plume-like dripping tops of the various kinds of palms stood out clearer in the coming light.

“They are going to take off his chains first,” thought the boy, as he drew nearer still, no one paying the slightest heed to his presence; and he had a full view of the man as the spear-bearers drew up in two lines whose ends rested on the river, leaving their officers standing by the prisoner, and undoing his bonds.

Ned was not half a dozen yards away, and a feeling of satisfaction pervaded him as he saw the wrists set free, and heard the chain clank as it was thrown on the ground.

The fetters from the man’s ankles followed next, and fell to the ground, while Ned could not help wondering at the stolid aspect of the prisoner, who displayed not the slightest satisfaction at being freed from so painful and degrading a load.

What followed was so quick that Ned had hardly time to realise what it meant, for the officer signed to the prisoner to kneel down, and he sullenly obeyed, while his lower jaw was working in a mechanical fashion as he kept on grinding his betel-nut. The sun was evidently now well above the horizon, for the gray mist was shot with wondrous hues, and the palm-leaves high overhead were turned to gold. There were sweet musical notes from the jungle mingled with the harsher cries and shrieks of parrots, and with a peculiar rushing noise a great hornbill flapped its heavy wings, as it flew rapidly across the river. In short, it was the beginning of a glorious tropic day for all there but one, who knelt sullen and hopeless, only a few yards from Ned, who stood spell-bound, now that he realised what was to happen, too much fascinated by the horrible scene to turn and flee.

For, as the man knelt there with the guard of spearmen on either side, one Malay, who seemed to be an officer, but whom Ned realised to be the rajah’s executioner, took out a little handful of cotton wool from the folds of his sarong, tore open the loose baju or cotton jacket his victim wore, so as to lay bare the bronze skin upon his shoulder, and placed the wool over it like a loose pad just within the collar-bone.

“Is he going to set fire to it and brand him?” thought Ned; but the next moment he drew in his breath with a hiss, as if he suffered pain, for the executioner whipped out, from its wooden sheath at his waist, a short kris with a curved handle and a dull thin steel blade. This he held with his left hand perpendicularly, with the point resting in the centre of the cotton wool, and in the momentary pause which followed, Ned saw that the culprit was gazing straight at him in a dull heavy way, and that his lips were moving as he still ground the betel-nut between his teeth.

It was but a momentary pause, and then, quick as lightning, the executioner brought his right hand with a smart blow upon the curved hilt of the kris, driving it perpendicularly into the victim’s chest, transfixing his heart, and as rapidly drew it forth, while the prisoner fell back, without struggle or groan, splash into the river, where Ned saw him rolled over by the rapid current dimly-seen there, for the mist was heavy on the surface; but visible till there seemed to be a rush in the water, the dead man was snatched under, and the mist slowly rolled away, to leave the surface glittering in the morning sunshine, and taking a glorious tint of blue from the clear morning sky.

Ned saw all this vividly, and then a mist gathered over everything again, as he tottered rather than walked a few yards to where he could throw one arm round a tall slim cocoa-nut tree, and hold on, for he felt sick, and he knew that the mist now was only in his eyes.

But he saw the spearmen form up with military precision before and behind the executioner, as he calmly thrust his little kris back in the waist-folds of his sarong, and then the party marched off with their spears glittering in the morning sun, and from somewhere in the jungle a wild-fowl uttered his sharp short crow.

“Am I going to faint?” thought Ned; and then he started and turned sharply round, for a voice said quickly: “Ah, my lad! You there?”

Ned saw that it was Mr Braine standing before him, looking at him frowningly, and with an air of disgust.

“Yes; I came for a walk,” stammered Ned, huskily.

“And you saw that?”

“Yes,” cried Ned, with a passionate cry, as his blood, which had seemed chilled and to flow sluggishly through his veins, now throbbed in his temples. “I could not stop them. I did not know. They have just murdered a man. He fell into the river, and—and—oh, it is too horrible!”

“It was not a murder. It was an execution by the rajah’s command,” said Mr Braine, coldly. “You ought not to have come.”

“I didn’t know, sir. I could not tell. I thought—I don’t know—I never imagined—”

“I beg your pardon, my lad,” said Mr Braine, kindly. “I thought you were attracted by a morbid desire to witness the horrible.”

“Oh no!” said Ned with a shudder. “I should have been too great a coward if I had known. But has this man the right to do such things?”

“The rajah!” said Mr Braine, shrugging his shoulders; “he is king here in his own country. He has his tiny army and navy, and he has conquered the three petty chiefs nearest to his domain.”

“But the English—the Queen,” said Ned. “It seems terrible that a man like this should have such power. Will not government interfere?”

“No. How could it? But there, come with me, and try to forget what you have been seeing.”

“But one moment, sir. Couldn’t you have interfered to save the man’s life? Did you know he was to be mur—”

“Executed, my boy. Yes, and I appealed to the rajah for mercy; but he gave me so terrible an account of the man’s life that I was silenced at once. Come, you have plenty of time before breakfast. I want you to see my home.”

Ned shivered a little as he gave a glance round at the scene, which looked so beautiful, that it seemed impossible that so great a horror could have taken place there. Then he followed the Resident, and awoke to the fact that they were alone.

“Where are the men who were following me,” he said, and Mr Braine smiled.

“Gone back to their quarters, I suppose,” he said. “They consider you are in my charge now.”

Ned gave him a curious look, which his companion interpreted directly.

“Very well,” he said, laughing; “think so if you like. I suppose I am your guard. Ah, here are your two friends,” for the Tumongong and the other officer came up hurriedly, and made a communication to the last speaker.

“I must put you off, Murray,” he said, turning quickly to the boy. “The rajah is taken ill. You can wander about the place a bit; I daresay I shall be back soon.”

He went off with the two Malay officers, and Ned hesitated for a few moments as to which direction he should take, and ending by making for the river higher up the stream, so as to get right away from the spot that he could not recall without a shudder. This part, too, looked particularly attractive with its groups of palms and large forest trees, some of which overhung the stream, one being covered with white flowers to its very summit.

It was all very beautiful as he neared it, and he began thinking of how delighted his uncle would be with the orchids and other parasitical plants which cling to the boughs; but all at once, as he was looking round, he caught sight of one of his guards, and directly after of the other, for, as if by magic, they had reappeared, and the sensation of being watched again, coming upon the recollections of the morning adventure, seemed quite to rob the place of its beauty.

“I may as well go back,” he thought to himself, after wandering for a short distance among the trees, and stopping at last to lay his hand upon a branch which overhung the river, so that he could lean out and gaze down into the dark clear water, with some vague idea of seeing whether there were any fish.

He could see none, but it was very attractive to gaze down into that dark clear water with its patches of floating lotus-leaves, from among which rose the bright blue waterlily-like flowers. They seemed likely places for fish, and for a few minutes the grim horrors of the morning passed away, and he began to think of what a capital place that would be for carp-fishing, if it were an English river at home, and to wonder what kind of fish there would be there. For that there were fish he felt convinced, from a slight swirling movement he had seen, and the shaking of the stems and leaves once or twice, as if something were moving somewhere below.

That smooth shadowy pool in the river was very beautiful, and the sun streamed down through the leaves like a silver shower, as Ned still thought of the fishing, and this brought up the recollection of the boy he had seen on the river and at his return at night.

“Perhaps he’s the rajah’s son,” thought Ned. “No,” he continued inconsequently, “he couldn’t be, because the rajah has lots of wives, and of course he would have plenty of sons. I know,” he thought, after a pause; “he must be the Tumongong’s boy. He did look something like him. I shouldn’t wonder if its—”

Ned’s thoughts seemed at that moment to have been cut off short, or, to use a railway phrase, shunted off on to another track—that is, from fancies about the Tumongong’s son to the fishy inhabitants of the river.

For once more he noticed that about twenty feet from the overhanging bank, formed of twisted roots, on which he stood, one of the largest beds of floating lotus-leaves was being agitated by what must certainly be quite a large fish forcing its way toward him, till he could see its long brown back just beneath the surface, and gliding very slowly nearer.

It was impossible to make out what it was for the leaves, two or three of which were pushed up, and sank down again while others were forced aside.

It was quite fascinating to watch it, and Ned was longing for some fine tackle, when there was a sudden rustling in the boughs overhead, and a dark animal that he could not clearly distinguish began leaping and bounding about, chattering, shrieking, and making other strange noises, as it shook the boughs and ran out on one over the water, to hang down by one hand and a foot, chattering and showing its teeth menacingly at the big fish which was still slowly gliding nearer to the bank.

There was no mistaking what the animal was now, and wondering at its comparative tameness, Ned’s attention was now diverted to what was the finest and most active monkey he had ever seen.

“I didn’t know monkeys liked fishing,” he was saying to himself, when the movement in the water increased, the animal in the tree swung itself nearer, and there was a rush and splash just as the spectator felt a violent shock as if some one had seized him from behind, and losing his balance he fell backward, and then in alarm rolled over twice away from the river, and struggled up to his knees, just as a figure rushed at him again and dragged him farther away.

Chapter Eight.

A Hungry Croc.

The next moment Ned stood with clenched fists, about to fly at the Tumongong’s son, as he had mentally dubbed him, but his fists unclenched, and he began to comprehend that he must have been in some danger from which he had been driven and dragged by the excited lad, who now snatched off the little flat military-looking cap he wore, and showed a crop of curly dark hair—not black, coarse, and straight like a Malay’s—and as he wiped his streaming forehead with the silken sleeve of his baju, he cried fiercely: “What a jolly fool you must be to go and stand there.”

“Eh? I? Was I? Would the monkey have bitten me?”

“Yes, if you had pulled his tail, and he wouldn’t have let you. He bitten you? No.”

“Then,” said Ned, flushing a little, and feeling indignant at the young semi-savage’s dictatorial speech, “why was I a jolly fool to go and stand there, pray?”

“Hark at him!” said the lad, looking round as if he were addressing an audience; “he says, Why was he a jolly fool? Oh, what a green one you are!”

“Look here, sir,” said Ned, shortly; “have the goodness to be a little more respectful in your speech. I am not accustomed to be addressed in that manner.”

“Oh certainly, my lord,” said the lad. “Salaam maharajah, salaam.” And raising his hands above his head, he bowed down almost to the ground. “I didn’t know you were such a grandee.”

“Never mind what I am, sir, and have the goodness to keep your place.”

“Yes, my lord. Salaam maha—”

“Stop!” cried Ned, angrily. “I don’t want you to do that tomfoolery to me.”

The lad made a grimace, and meekly crossed his hands upon his breast.

“Now, sir, have the goodness to tell me why I was a jolly fool, and so green, as you call it. Pity people can’t teach you foreigners something better than slang. Now then—answer.”

“Well, to go and stand under that tree with a croc stalking you.”

“Croc stalking you? What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know the river’s full of crocodiles?”

“I know there are some there.”

“Some!” cried the lad. “Why, it’s as full as a pond is of sticklebacks.”

Ned stared at these words, coming out of eastern lips.

“Why, when they krissed a fellow this morning, and tumbled him into the river, Dilloo Dee says one of them snatched the body under directly. He told me just now. Didn’t you see that one coming at you?”

“I saw a big fish under the lotus-leaves.”

“Big fisherman you mean. Poof!” cried the boy, bursting into a roar of laughter, “it was a great croc, and I was just in time to knock you out of the way. I thought he would have got you, he made such a rush.”

“Did—did you see him?” said Ned, turning a little white.

“Only got a glimpse of his wet scales; but I knew he was there stalking you, by that monkey scolding him. Oh my! how the little beggars do hate a croc.”

“Then—then, you saved my life, and I didn’t know it,” said Ned.

“Eh? Well, I s’pose I did, for if he had pulled you down, I don’t suppose we should ever have seen you again.”

“Ugh!” shuddered Ned. “How horrid. What a dreadful country this is.”

“Get out! I like it.”

“But tell me: would that thing have dragged me in?”

“To be sure he would. Why, it’s only two days since he pulled a girl into the water. She’d only gone down to wash a sarong.”

“Is it a big one?” asked Ned, after gazing in a horrified way at his companion.

“Oh yes! a whacker—fifty or sixty feet long.”

“Nonsense!”

“Well then, fifteen or twenty. I know it’s a big one. One of our men—Dilloo, I think it was—saw him one day ashore. Look here, old chap, tell you what. We’ll get some of the fellows to lend us a rope with a loose end, and a hook, and we’ll set a night-line for the beggar, and catch him. What do you say?”

“I should like to, if we stay here.”

“Oh, you’ll stay here,” said the lad, laughing. “Like fishing?”

“Passionately.”

“So do I. Caught two dozen yesterday after I met you. I say, you and your uncle are bird and butterfly cocks, aren’t you?”

“My uncle is a naturalist, and I help him,” said Ned, rather stiffly, for this easy-going address from a young Malay, who had evidently passed all his life among English people, annoyed him. “But I say, what a knowledge you have of English.”

“Oh yes, I know some English,” said the lad, laughing.

“And Malay?”

“Oh, pretty tidy. I don’t jabber, but I can make the beggars understand me right enough. What’s your name? Murray, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But the other? Tom—Dick—Harry?”

“Edward.”

“Oh, where are you going to, Edward Gray? What is it? That’s wrong. What does old Tennyson say? Hullo! what’s the matter?”

“I—that is—” stammered Ned—“some mistake. You speak English so well.”

“Of course I do.”

“But what is your name?”

“Frank Braine.”

“Then you are not the Tumongong’s son?”

“Tumon grandmother’s—ha! ha! What a game! Oh, I see now! I forgot that I was in nigger togs. You took me for one of them.”

“Of course I did.”

“Well, it’s a rum one. Won’t father laugh! That’s why you were so cocky at first?”

“Yes, I didn’t know you were Mr Braine’s son. You are, aren’t you?”

“Course I am. Been out here two years now. I was at Marlborough—school you know—and I’d got the whiffles or something so bad, the doctor said I should die if I wasn’t sent to a warm climate. They sent a letter to the dad, and it was nine months getting to him. Ma says he was in a taking till he’d got a despatch sent down to Singapore, to be dillygraphed home to England for me to come here directly. He couldn’t fetch me, you know. The ould one, as Tim calls him, wouldn’t let him go. You know him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they sent me out, and after they’d carried me on board, the captain of the steamer told one of the passengers that it was a shame to have sent me, for I should die before I was half-way out. It made me so wild, that I squeaked out that he didn’t know what he was talking about, and he’d better mind his own business. And he didn’t either, for I began to get better directly, and the old skipper shook hands with me, and was as pleased as could be, one day just before we got to Singapore; for I had climbed up into the foretop and laughed at him, I’d got so much stronger. Then I had to go up to Malacca, and there old Bang-gong met me.”

“Who?”

“Tumongong, and brought me up here, and now I’m as strong as you are.”

“Yes, you look wonderfully brown and well.”

“And you took me for a nigger! What a game!”

“Of course it was very stupid of me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. But, I say, I am glad you’ve come. You won’t be able to go away again, but that don’t matter. It’s a jolly place, and you and I and old Tim will go shooting and fishing, and—I say—I shall come with you and your uncle collecting specimens.”

“I hope so,” said Ned, who began to like his new acquaintance. “But don’t you feel as if you are a prisoner here?”

“No; not a bit. I go where I like. Old Jamjah knows I shan’t run away from my people.”

“Jamjar?”

“That’s only my fun. I call him the Rajah of Jamjah sometimes, because he’s such a beggar to eat sweets. He asks me sometimes to go and see him, and then we have a jam feed. I’m pretty tidy that way, but he beats me hollow. Perhaps he’ll ask you some day, and if he takes to you and likes you, he gives you all sorts of things, for he’s tremendously rich, and always getting more. He wants to find gold and emeralds and rubies if he can, to make him richer, but none of his people have the gumption to look in the right place.”

“That’s why he wants my uncle to go on expeditions then.”

“To be sure it is; and if he finds a mine or two for the old boy, he’ll make Mr Murray a rich man.”

Ned looked at him thoughtfully, while the boy chattered on.

“He gave me these silk things I’ve got on, and lots more. It pleases him to wear ’em. Make some of my old form chaps laugh if they saw me, I know; but they’re very comfortable when you’re used to them, and its safer to wear ’em when you go amongst strangers, too. He gave me this kris,” continued the lad, uncovering the hilt, which was wrapped in the waist-folds of his showy plaid sarong. “That’s the way to wear it. That means peace if its covered up. If you see a fellow with his kris in his waist uncovered, that means war, so cock your pistol and look out.”

As he spoke he drew out the weapon from his waistband and handed it to Ned.

“That handle’s ivory, and they do all that metal-work fine.”

“Why, all that working and ornament is gold.”

“To be sure it is. Pull it out: there’s more gold on the blade.”

Ned took hold of the handle and drew the little weapon from its light-coloured wood sheath to find that it was very broad just at the hilt, and rapidly curved down to a narrow, wavy or flame shaped blade, roughly sharp on both edges, and running down to a very fine point. It was not polished and clear like European steel, but dull, rough, and dead, full of a curious-looking grain, as if two or three different kinds of metal had been welded together, while up near the hilt there was a beautiful arabesque pattern in gold.

“Ugh!” said Ned, returning it to its sheath; “it’s a nasty-looking thing. Is it poisoned?”

“Not it. A thing like that doesn’t want any poison upon it.”

“But krises are poisoned.”

“I never saw one that was, and father says he never did. He has asked several of the big men here about them, and they always laugh and say it is nonsense; that the only poison in them is given by a good strong arm. Everybody wears a kris here,” he continued, as he returned the weapon to his waistband. “Perhaps old Jamjah will give you one.”

“I don’t want one,” said Ned. Then, suddenly, “It seems a stupid sort of handle, doesn’t it?”

“Yes; more like a pistol, but they like it, and they know how to use it too. I say, I hope the old chap will ask you too, next time he asks me. It’s capital fun, for you can hear all his wives whispering together behind the mat curtains, and they get peeping at you while you’re having all the good things, and are longing to join in, but they mustn’t be seen by a giaour, or the son of a giaour, as they call me. I say, if you like I’ll talk to the old fellow about you, and then he’s sure to ask you.”

“No, don’t please,” replied Ned. “I nearly burst out laughing when I saw him yesterday.”

“I say, it’s precious lucky for you that you didn’t. He’d never have forgiven you. Had he got on his grand uniform? Yes, he would have, to show himself off, and he does look comic in it too. You see it was made for him at a guess in London; and, my! it is rum to see him straddling about in it sometimes. He’s just like a peacock, and as proud of his feathers. But if you had laughed it would have been horrible. So mind what you are about, for he’s sure to ask you some day, and he’ll call you ‘goo-ood boy’ if you eat enough. I taught the old cock parrot to say that. But, I say, aren’t you getting hungry?”

“Yes,” said Ned, quickly, for that seemed to account for a faint feeling from which he suffered.

“So am I. Daresay the old croc is,” said the lad, grinning.

“Oh!” cried Ned, offering his hand, “I am grateful to you for that.”

“Stuff! That’s all right.”

“I shall never be able to repay you.”

“How do you know? Some day you’ll catch an elephant putting me in his trunk, or one of our prize striped torn tigers carrying me off, like a cat and a mouse. Then it will be your turn. Come on and have breakfast with us.”

“No, I can’t leave my uncle.”

“Then I’ll come and have breakfast with you. Old Jamjah will send you your rations, and they will be good till you offend him. Then you’d better look out for squalls.”

“What do you mean?”

“Poison. But old Barnes will put you up to some dodges to keep that off, I daresay. Yes, I am hungry. Come on.”

Chapter Nine.

Ned loses his Hat.

The two lads had grown in an hour as intimate as if they had been friends for months, and they were chatting away together as they approached Murray’s house, where Hamet was standing looking out.

“Hah!” he cried; “you are here. The master has been looking for you, and is gone again.”

“Here he comes!” cried Ned’s new companion, taking off and waving his cap as Murray came striding up, looked strangely at the Resident’s son, and then turned to his nephew.

“I was getting anxious about you,” he said. “Keep by me, my boy. Come along to breakfast. We are going up the river directly after. Mr Braine has been to say we are to go on with our work at once, and land and examine some hills about ten miles up.”

“I know,” said Ned’s companion, “Gunong Bu.”

Murray turned upon him sharply, but the lad was in nowise abashed.

“I’ll go with you, and show you. I know the way through the jungle. There’s an old path. I’ve been—”

“Thank you,” said Murray, coldly. “Come, my boy, the breakfast has all been sent on by the rajah.”

“I knew he would send,” said their visitor. “You keep friends with him, and you’ll see how civil he can be.”

Murray frowned a little; and, amused by his uncle being deceived as he had himself been, Ned said quietly, “he has come to breakfast with us, uncle.”

“It is very kind of him,” said Murray, coldly; “but he might have waited till he was asked.”

“And then you wouldn’t have asked me. I say, you; he thinks like you did, that I’m a nigger.”

“Well,” said Murray, quickly, “are you not a Malay, in spite of your perfect English?”

“Of course not, sir; I’m Frank Braine.”

“My dear sir, I beg your pardon,” cried Murray. “You should have told me, Ned. Come in, my lads, I’m getting sharp-set;” and directly after, they were seated, eastern fashion, cross-legged on the mat, which was spread with Malay luxuries, prominent among which was some excellent coffee, and a hearty meal was made, with the Resident’s son as much at home as if he had been a very old friend; and hardly was it ended, when Mr Braine appeared.

“Ah, Frank,” he said, smiling; “not long making yourself at home, I see. The boat’s ready, Mr Murray,” he continued, “and plenty of provisions on board. I daresay you will get some new birds and insects on your way, and the rajah hopes you will make some discovery up in the hills.”

“He seems reasonable,” said Murray, laughing. “What would he like first—a gold-mine?”

“Oh, you must humour him, and then you will have plenty of opportunity for your own work. Will you want an interpreter beside your own man?”

“No,” said Frank, quietly. “I’m going with them, father.”

“You, my boy? Oh, very well, only try not to be rash; though I don’t suppose you will have any adventures. You know, I suppose, that we have tiger and elephant about here, so take a rifle in case you meet big game.”

The men were waiting below, and they were soon after despatched with Hamet to carry guns, ammunition, and the other impedimenta of a naturalist who is an enthusiastic collector. The gentlemen followed soon after, Mr Braine seeing them down to the boat, which proved to be a handsome naga, fully manned. The crew were well-armed, and as Ned glanced at their faces he, little observant as he was in such matters, could note that they were a strong, fierce-looking, determined party, who would stand at nothing their leader set them to do.

There was a friendly wave of the hand, followed by that of a couple of pocket handkerchiefs, as the boat swung out into the stream and began rapidly to ascend, for the doctor and his ladies had just strolled down to the bamboo jetty, but too late to see the party off.

“I say, don’t do that,” cried Frank, quickly, as Ned hung one arm over the side of the boat, and let the cool water run through his fingers.

“Of course not. I forgot Hamet did tell me.”

“There’s a chap at the next place with only one arm. He was hanging over the side of a boat holding his line with his hand, and a croc snapped it right off.”

“Is that a traveller’s tale, squire?” said Murray, drily.

“No, it isn’t,” said the boy, frowning. “You don’t believe it? Ask him there if a croc didn’t nearly seize him this morning.”

“What!” cried Murray.

“Yes, uncle,” said Ned. “It was so, and Frank Braine snatched me away just in time.”

“Oh, get out! I only pushed you out of his way. They are nasty beggars.”

He turned to the Malay guard and said a few words, to which a chorus which sounded like assent came at once.

“They say you have to be very careful, for the crocs kill a good many people every year.”

“Then we will be very careful,” said Murray; “and I beg your pardon for doubting you.”

“Oh, that don’t matter.”

“And let me thank you for helping Ned here this morning.”

“That’s nothing,” cried Frank, hastily. “Hi! Abdul!” he shouted to one of the rowers; and he hurried from beneath, the mat awning overhead, amongst the crew to the man in the bows, evidently to avoid listening to further thanks, and sat down to go on talking to the Malay, whose heavy stolid face lit up as he listened.

“So you had quite an adventure?” said Murray.

“Yes, uncle,” replied Ned; and he then went on to tell of the horrible scene he had witnessed.

Murray listened with his brows knit, and then after sitting thoughtful and silent for some minutes: “Mr Braine and the doctor have not exaggerated the situation, Ned,” he said. “Well, my lad, we must make the best of it. I daresay we can spend a month here advantageously, but we must be careful not to upset the rajah, for, though he can be a capital friend, and send us out collecting in this royal way, it is evident that he can prove a very dangerous enemy. You see he is a man who has the power of life and death in his hands, and does not hesitate about using it. We are beyond help from the settlement, and unmistakably his prisoners.”

“Well, I don’t mind being a prisoner, uncle, if he is going to treat us like this.”

“Good, lad. I’ll take a leaf out of your book, and make the best of things. This is quite new ground for a naturalist, so let’s set aside all worry about where we are, and think only of the wonderful objects about us.”

Ned was already following out that plan, and wishing his uncle would not worry about other things, for they were riding at a pretty good rate up the clear sparkling river, and passing scene after scene of tropic loveliness that excited a constant desire in the boy to go ashore and roam amongst grand trees of the loveliest tints of green, all different from anything he had seen before.

Just then Frank came back.

“Got your shooting tackle ready?” he said.

“No, but I was thinking it was time,” replied Murray, “and that we might as well land directly we see a bird or two. I want to get all the specimens I can.”

“Land!” said Frank, with a merry laugh; “land here?”

“Yes; not to go any distance. Just for a ramble, and then return to the boat.”

“But you couldn’t, nor yet for miles farther on.”

“Why? The country on either bank looks lovely.”

“The trees do, but that’s all jungle.”

“Well, I see that,” said Murray, rather impatiently.

“But you don’t know what our jungle is, sir. You couldn’t get a dozen yards any way.”

“The trees are not so thick as that.”

“No, but the undergrowth is, and it’s all laced together, and bound with prickly canes, so that at every step you must have men to go before you with their parangs to chop and clear the way.”

“Is a parang a chopper?”

“They chop with it,” replied Frank. “It’s the sword thing the men carry to cut down the wild vines and canes with.”

“Do you mean to say we couldn’t get through there?” said Ned.

“Yes, of course I do. Like to try? I did when I first came. Why, in five minutes you’d be horribly scratched, and your clothes torn half off your back, and you so hot you couldn’t bear yourself.”

Cock-a-doodle-do!

It was a peculiar broken spasmodic crow from some little distance in the jungle, and Ned turned upon the Resident’s son, laughingly: “Why, there must be a road there to that farm or cottage and back.”

There was an answering crow from farther away.

“Is there a village close by?” asked Murray.

“If there was a village, it would be here,” said Frank, showing his white teeth. “This is the high-road of the country, and the villages are all on the rivers.”

“But there must be people who keep fowls in there.”

“Yes,” said Frank, merrily; “Mother Nature does. Those are jungle cocks crowing. I say, look out. Don’t you want one of those?”

He pointed to where a lovely bluish bird, with a long tail ending in oval disks like tiny tennis racquets, was seated some distance ahead upon a bare branch; but almost as he spoke the bird took flight, and went right on, up the river like a flash of blue light.

“Never mind; you’ll have plenty more chances, and you’ll soon know as much about the place as I do.”

The guns were brought out of their woollen bags and charged, and the boat glided on, steered closer in to one bank now, so as to give the naturalist a better chance of a shot; with the result that he brought down in the course of the next two hours, as they followed the winding course of the river, shut in on both sides by the tall flower-decked trees, two brilliant racquet-tailed kingfishers, a pink-breasted dove, and a tiny sunbird, decked in feathers that seemed to have been bronzed and burnished with metallic tints of ruby, purple, and gold.

These were carefully picked up from the water in which they fell, laid in the sun to dry their feathers, and then put aside for preparation that evening. After this specimens were seen of gorgeously painted butterflies, one being evidently seven or eight inches across, but capture was out of the question, and Ned watched them longingly as they flitted across the stream.

“I can take you where you can catch them,” said Frank; “along by the edge of the jungle where the rice-fields are; only the worst of butterfly catching there is, that a tiger may fly out and butter you, as they do the men sometimes who are at work over the rice.”

“Not a pleasant way of butterfly hunting, I must say,” said Murray, who, gun in hand, was watching the edge of the jungle. “What’s the matter?”

For the men had suddenly ceased rowing, and the naga glided slowly on, diminishing in speed till it was stationary, and then, yielding to the influence of the stream, began to glide back.

Meanwhile an excited conversation was going on between the principal boatman and Frank Braine, the former pointing up into a huge tree whose boughs overhung the river, their tips almost touching the surface, and naturally both Murray and Ned gazed up too.

“What is it—a monkey or a bird?” said Ned, eagerly.

“Yes, I see it now,” said Frank. Then, telling the men in Malay to keep the boat stationary, he turned to Murray: “Here’s a shot for you, sir. I couldn’t see it at first. Their eyes are sharper than ours. Wait a minute till the boat’s right. That’s it. Stop now, both of you look right in through that opening among the leaves, and you’ll see it on a branch.”

“What, some handsome bird?”

“No; something that’s been up there after the birds or monkeys. Do you see? Look where I’m pointing.”

“I am looking there,” said Ned, eagerly; “but I can only see a great creeper all curled about and twisted in knots where it looks quite dark.”

“Well, that’s it,” said Frank, laughing; “that great creeper. See it, Mr Murray?”

“Yes, I see it now. Wait till I change the cartridge for bigger shot.”

“Yes; use your biggest for him,” whispered Frank; and Ned looked on wonderingly, refraining from asking questions, for he was met by an imperious “Hush!”

“I can’t see what he means, I suppose,” thought Ned; and he watched eagerly now as Murray suddenly took aim and fired.

Then for a few moments there was a violent rustling and breaking of twigs, and something heavy fell with a great splash beyond the screen of leaves formed by the lowermost drooping branches.

“You hit him!” cried Frank, excitedly, and he gave an order to the men, who rowed in under the drooping boughs.

“Now quick, the other barrel!” cried the lad. “See him? Too late. He’s gone!”

“I couldn’t get a good sight of him,” said Murray.

“But what was it?”

“A great serpent. He glided out of the river in amongst those bushes.”

“Could we follow if the boat were rowed right in?”

Frank shook his head.

“Impossible,” he said; and the boat was pulled out and began once more to ascend the stream.

“How big was it?” said Ned, as the incident was discussed.

“Impossible to say,” replied Murray; “but I should say fifteen or sixteen feet long, and as large round as your leg.”

Another hour’s steady pulling up against the stream brought them to quite a change in the character of the river-banks. One side had the jungle as before, but on the other the forest receded more and more, till they gazed across a park-like plain dotted with clumps of huge trees, and rising more and more till a range of hills towered up looking wonderfully beautiful, wooded as they were to the summit.

This meant a tramp, and the boat was run up beneath some trees, to one of which it was moored, while two of the guard busied themselves in spreading refreshments beneath the awning in a business-like way, which suggested that they had been used to such tasks before.

“Rather hot for a long walk,” said Frank, when the meal was finished; “but I don’t mind, if you don’t.”

Murray smiled with the calm contempt for heat usually displayed by an Englishman, took his gun and stepped ashore, followed by the boys, to find that half a dozen men armed with spears followed them, one stepping forward to act as guide, but after a few words from Frank, going back to his place with the rest.

“Now then,” he said, “what’s it to be—birds or beasts?”

“Birds to-day,” replied Murray.

“There you go then—a big one,” cried the lad, as with a rushing, heavy beating sound of its wings, a great bird flow directly over their heads, uttering a hoarse cry, and with its huge curved bill bearing a curious, nearly square, excrescence on the top, plainly seen as the bird approached.

“Why didn’t you shoot?” cried Frank, as the bird went off unscathed. “Why, I believe, I could have hit that.”

“For the simple reason that I did not want to encumber myself with a bird I have had before.”

“Oh, I see. There are lots of those about here, and I’ve found their nests.”

“What sort of a nest is it?” asked Ned. “Anything like a magpie’s?”

“No!” cried Frank; “not a bit. Big as they are, they build like a tomtit does, right in a hollow tree, but the one I saw had only laid one egg, and a tomtit lays lots. It was in the trunk of a great worm-eaten tree, and the hen bird was shut in, for the cock had filled the entrance-hole with clay, all but a bit big enough for the hen to put out her beak to be fed. What’s that?”

Murray had fired and brought down a gaily-feathered bird, green, scarlet, and orange, and with a sharp wedge-shaped beak fringed with sharp bristles.

“A barbet,” said Murray, giving the bird to one of the men to carry; “but like your hornbill, too common to be worth preserving.”

Other birds fell to Murray’s gun as they went on. A trogon was the next, a thickly-feathered soft-looking bird, yoke-toed like a cuckoo, and bearing great resemblance in shape to the nightjar of the English woods, but wonderfully different in plumage; for, whereas the latter is of a soft blending of greys and browns, like the wings of some woodland moths, this trogon’s back was of a cinnamon brown, and its breast of a light rosy-scarlet blending off into white crossed with fine dark-pencilled stripes.

The next was rather a common bird, though none the less beautiful in its claret-coloured plumage; but the striking part of the bird was its gaily-coloured beak of orange and vivid blue.

The tramp in the broiling sunshine was so full of interest now, that Ned forgot the labour, and eagerly kept pace with his uncle, the Malays following closely behind, and carrying the specimens willingly enough, but with their swarthy faces wearing rather a contemptuous look for the man who, in preference to a quiet siesta beneath a tree, chose to tramp on beneath the burning sun for the sake of a few uneatable birds.

“I say,” cried Frank, “I’ll tell you of a bird you ought to shoot. Hist—hist!”

He made energetic signs to them to lie down among the low bushes through which they were passing.

He was obeyed at once, and most quickly by the Malays, who crouched down, spear in hand, like an ambush in waiting for something far more important than the two birds of which the lad had caught sight in a narrow glade of a park-like patch of trees they were approaching, but which now remained invisible.

“Well,” said Murray, after waiting patiently for some few minutes with his gun cocked, “what did you see?”

“Two birds you ought to have shot,” the lad whispered back, “but they must have seen us. No; look. Go on first; creep to those bushes.”

He pointed to the edge of the clump, from out of which came slowly, with stately movement, a couple of long-necked birds, one of which carried behind him an enormous train of feathers which flashed in the brilliant sunshine.

Murray needed no second hint, but crept carefully forward, taking advantage of every bush and tree which afforded him shelter, while the rest remained in concealment eagerly awaiting the result; even the Malays looking excited, with their soft dark eyes glowing and their heads craned forward.

Murray soon reduced the distance between him and the birds—quite a quarter of a mile—and it seemed as if he would easily stalk them; but while he was a full hundred yards away, something seemed to have startled the game, which rose at once and made for the open, yet just in the midst of the disappointment felt at the waste of energy over the stalk, they curved round so as to make for the shelter of the trees, passing between the watchers and Murray.

“Never mind,” said Frank, “he’ll have another chance.” Bang! following upon a puff of smoke, and the bird with the long train stopped in its flight, shot up a few yards, and then fell motionless.

Ned uttered a cheer, and the whole party hurried forward, to reach the prize some time after Murray, who had reloaded and was carefully smoothing the bird’s plumage.

“A long shot, Ned,” he said. “That must have been fully eighty yards. It was the large shot did it. There, you never saw a peacock like that.”

“Yes,” cried Ned, “often.”

“No, my lad; look again.”

“Well, it is a little different. The neck’s green.”

“Yes, instead of blue. That’s the Javanese peacock, and a splendid specimen. We’ll hang this up till our return. Anything likely to touch it if we hang it on a branch?”

“No, I think not, sir,” replied Frank; and after the bird had been carefully suspended fully six feet from the ground, the party walked on, to find that the ground was beginning to rise steadily, an indication of their nearing the hills.

“So that’s the bird you wanted me to find, was it?” said Murray, after a long silent tramp, for the bush had grown rather dense.

“Oh no. The birds I mean only come out of a night. I’ve only seen two since I’ve been here, but you can hear them often in the jungle.”

“Owls?”

“Oh no; pheasants, father says they are. Birds with tremendously long tails, and wings all over great spots like a peacock’s, only brown.”

“Argus pheasants,” said Murray, quietly. “Yes, I must try and get some specimens of them.”

The ground began to rise more rapidly now, till it was quite a climb through open forest, very different to the dense jungle by the river-side. The ground, too, had become stony, with great gray masses projecting here and there, and still they rose higher and higher, till, hot and breathless, they stopped in a narrow gorge to look back at the narrow plain they had crossed, just beyond which, and fringed on the far side by the dark jungle, they could see the river winding along like a ribbon of silver.

There were several umbrageous trees here, and the air was so fresh and comparatively cool that it was decided to halt now for an hour to rest. Then, after a good look round had been taken, Murray suggested that they should return by another route to where the peacock had been hung, after which they could go direct to the boat.

The Malays lay down and began preparing fresh pieces of betel-nut to chew; but Murray’s rest was short, and jumping up again, he took a geological hammer from his belt, and began to crack and chip the stones and masses of rock which peered from the barren-looking ground, the two boys, one of whom carried the gun, watching him intently.

“Plenty of quartz, Ned,” said Murray. “Quite possible that one might find gold here.”

As he spoke, he broke a piece of gray stone which he had hooked out from among the grass, and laid in a convenient place. A quick ejaculation came from his lips, and Frank cried excitedly, “Why, you haven’t found gold?”

“No, my lad, but I have found a valuable metal. Look!”

He handed the broken halves of the stone to the boys, while the Malays crouched together, chewed away at their betel, and watched them.

“Well,” said Ned, “I don’t see any valuable metal. Do you?”