"No fear, sir. Come along, Rob."
The big lieutenant rose with a sigh, the major sank back in his seat under the awning stretched in front of the native house he had made his head-quarters, and the sentry on duty, the barrel of whose rifle was hot as he presented arms, looked longingly at the young men as they walked down to the bamboo landing-stage at the river side, and selected one of the smallest and most attractive looking of the nagas or dragon boats swinging by its fibre rope to a post, with its crew of six on board squatting under the palm-leaf awning, and chewing betel till their protruding lips were scarlet with the juice.
Negotiations were opened up directly by Beecher, who had picked up enough of the Malay language to converse with a certain amount of ease; and he was all eagerness and animation as he spoke, while the tawny Malay boatmen remained apathetic in the extreme, and calmly enough gave the young man to understand that it was hot, that the work would be hard, and that it would be much better to sit as they were on their heels chewing sireh, lime, and betel-nut.
"But there'll be plenty of sport," said Beecher. "We shall shoot and fish, and take any amount of provisions, so that we can camp out comfortably high up the river for the night."
That would be quite out of the question, it seemed. The whole six would want to be back at the campong at sunset.
"Why?" asked Beecher impatiently.
Because they must be. What would their wives say?
"Gammon!" cried Beecher, flashing out the word in a way that made the men stare. Not that they understood its meaning, but they did the words in their own tongue which followed it. "I don't believe you've any one of you got a wife."
"They walked down to the bamboo landing-stage at the
river side."