The Project Gutenberg EBook of Trapped by Malays, by George Manville Fenn This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Trapped by Malays A Tale of Bayonet and Kris Author: George Manville Fenn Illustrator: Steven Spurrier Release Date: May 16, 2007 [EBook #21494] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAPPED BY MALAYS *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England George Manville Fenn "Trapped by Malays" Chapter One. “Two bad Boys”—Sergeant Ripsy. “Oh, bother!” The utterer of these two impatient words threw down a sheet of notepaper from which he had been reading, carefully smoothed out the folds to make it flat, and then, balancing it upon one finger as he sat back in a cane chair with his heels upon the table, gave the paper a flip with his nail and sent it skimming out of the window of his military quarters at Campong Dang, the station on the Ruah River, far up the west coast of the Malay Peninsula. “W hat does the old chap want now? Another wigging, I suppose. W hat have I been doing to make him write a note like that?—Note?” he continued, after a pause. “I ought to have said despatch. Hang his formality! Here, what did he say? How did he begin?” And he reached out his hand towards the table as if for the note. “There’s a fool! Now, why did I send it skimming out of the window like that? It’s too hot to get up and go out to the front to find it, and it’s no use to shout, ‘Qui-hi,’ for everybody will be asleep. Now, what did he say? My memory feels all soaked. Now, what was it? Major John Knowle requests the presence of Mr Archibald Maine—Mr Archibald Maine—Archibald! W hat were the old people dreaming about? I don’t know. It always sets me thinking of old Morley—bald, with the top of his head as shiny as a billiard-ball. Good old chap, though, even if he does bully one— requests the presence of Mr Archibald Maine at his quarters at—at seven o’clock this evening punctually. No. W hat’s o’clock? I think it was six. Couldn’t be seven, because that’s dinner-time, and he wouldn’t ask me then. It must be six. Here, I must get that note again, but I feel so pumped out and languid that I am blessed if I am going to get up and go hunting for that piece of paper. Phee- ew! It’s hotter than ever. I should just like to go down to the river-side, take off all my clothes under the trees, and sit there right up to my chin, with the beautiful, clear, cool water gurgling round my neck. Lovely! Yes—till there came floating along a couple of those knobs that look like big marbles— only all the time they are what old Morley calls ocular prominences over the beastly leering eyes of one of those crocodiles on the lookout for grub. Ugh! The beasts! Now, what could crocodiles be made for?—Oh, here’s somebody coming.” For all at once, faintly heard, the fag-end of the “British Grenadiers,” whistled very much out of tune, came floating in at the window. “Peter Pegg, by all that’s lucky!” The footsteps of some one evidently heavily laden came nearer and nearer, till, just as they were about to pass the young officer’s quarters, the occupier screwed-up his lips and gave vent to a low, clear note and its apparent echo, which sounded like the cry of some night-bird. The next moment there was the sound as of a couple of iron buckets being set down upon the ground, followed by the clang, clang of the handles; a dark shadow crossed the window, and a voice exclaimed: “You call, sir?” “That you, Pete?” “Yes, sir.” “What are you doing?” “Fatigue-work, sir. Got to take these ’ere buckets round to cook’s quarters.” “Can you see a letter lying out there anywhere?” “For the mail, sir?” “Mail! No, stupid! A piece of notepaper.” “With writing on it, sir?” “Of course.” “No, sir.—Oh yes, here it is, stuck in the flowers.” “Well, bring it to me.” “Can’t, sir, without treading on the beds.” “Then bring it round to the door.” There was a few moments’ intense silence, during which, in the tropic heat, it seemed as if Nature was plunged in her deepest sleep. Then came a renewal of the footsteps, a sharp tap upon the door, a loud “Come in!” and a very closely cropped and shaven, sun-browned face appeared, its owner clad in clean, white military flannel, drawing himself up stiffly as he held out the missive he was bearing. “Letter, sir.” “Well, bring it here. My arms are not telescopes.” “Pouf! No, sir. Here you are, sir.” And as the letter was taken the bearer’s droll-looking, good- humoured face gradually expanded into a broad grin, and then seemed to shut up sharply as the young officer raised his eyes. “Here, Pete, what were you grinning at? At me?” “No, sir. That I warn’t, sir. I never grin at you. I only do that at the Sergeant when he aren’t looking.” “You were certainly grinning, Pete.” “No, sir; only felt comfy-like.” “Oh, that’s right,” said the young officer; and then to himself, “It is seven o’clock, and it is to get up his appetite, I suppose. Sharpen it on me.—Well, Pete, what have you been up to now?” “I d’know, sir.” “Nonsense! You must know.” “S’elp me, sir, I don’t. The patient one has got his knife into me as usual. I expected it was to be pack-drill, but I come off with a two bucket job—water for the cook.” “Now, look here, Pete; tell the truth for once in a way. The Sergeant wouldn’t have come down upon you for nothing.” “W hat, sir! Oh, I say, Mr Archie, you can go it! Old tipsy Job not come down upon a fellow for nothing! Why, I have heerd him go on at you about your drill—” “That will do, Pegg. Don’t you forget yourself sir.” “Beg pardon, sir. I won’t, sir; but there have been times when—” “That will do.” “Yes, sir; of course, sir—when I have thought to myself if I had been a officer and a gentleman like you—” “I said that would do, Pegg.” “Yes, sir; I heerd you, sir—I’d have punched his fat head, sir.” “Look here, Peter Pegg; I see you have been having your hair cut again.” “Yes, sir. It’s so mortal hot, sir. I told Bob Ennery, sir, to cut it to the bone;” and the young fellow smiled very broadly as he passed both hands over the close crop, with an action that suggested the rubbing on of soap. “Then look here; next time you have it done I should advise you to have a bit taken off the tip of your tongue. It’s too long, Pete; and if I were as strict an officer as the Major says I ought to be, I should report you for want of respect.” “Not you, sir!” “What!” “Because you knows, sir, as I feels more respect for you than I do for the whole regiment put together. I talks a bit, and I never come anigh you, sir, without feeling slack.” “Feeling slack?” “Yes, sir. Unbuttoned-like, and as if I was smiling all over.” “What! at your officer?” “No, sir; not at you, sir. I can’t tell you why; only I don’t feel soldier-like—drilled up and stiff as if I had been starched by one of my comrades’ wives.” “Well, you are a rum fellow, Pete.” “Yes, sir,” said the man sadly. “That’s what our chaps say; and Patient Job says I am a disgrace to the regiment, that I know nothing, and that I shall never make a soldier. But I don’t care. Still, I do know one thing: I like you, sir; and if it hadn’t been for seeing you always getting into trouble—” “Peter Pegg!” “Yes, sir. But I can’t stop saying it, sir. If it hadn’t been for you, and seeing you always getting into trouble too—” “Pegg!” “Yes, sir—I should have pegged out.” “What! deserted?” “Yes, sir. Sounds bad, don’t it?” “Disgraceful!” “Yes, Mr Maine, sir; but ain’t it disgraceful for a sergeant to be allowed to hit a poor fellow a whack with that cane of his just because he’s a bit out in his drill?” “Drop it, Pete.” “And ’im obliged to stand up stiff, and dursen’t say a word?” “Didn’t you hear me say, ‘Drop it’?” “Yes, sir—and one’s blood b’iling all the while!” “Look here; you have been having it again, then, Pete?” “Again, sir! Why, I am always a-having of it.” “What was it, now?” “I telled you, sir: nothing.” “That was a lie, Pete. Now, wasn’t it?” “Not a lie, sir. Only a little cracker.” “Well, out with it.” “Not enough pipeclay, sir.” “Oh, I see.” “Jigger the pipeclay! It’s a regular cuss. Ah, it’s you laughing now, sir. Can I do anything else for you, sir?” “N–n–no.” “’Cause the cook will be howling after me directly, and I don’t want to be out with him.” “No, I suppose not; but what about that bait for fishing?” “Oh, that’s all right, sir. I will be ready. But don’t you think, sir, if we was to go higher up the river we could find a better place? It don’t seem much good only ketching them there little hikong- sammylangs.” “Eikon Sambilang, Pete. Don’t you know what that means?” “That’s what the niggers call them, sir. I suppose it’s because it’s their name.” “Five-barbelled fish, Pete, eh?” “Just like them, sir. Then why don’t they call them barbel, sir, like we do? I have seen lots of them ketched up Teddington way by the gentlemen in punts—whackers, too—not poor little tiddlers like these ’ere. We ought to go right up the river in a sampan, with plenty of bait, and try in a bit of sharp stream close to one of them deep holes.” “No good, Pete. We shouldn’t do any good. Those beauties of crocodiles clear out the holes.” “W hat! whacking the water, sir, with their tails? I’ve heerd them lots of times. Rum place this ’ere, sir, ain’t it?” “Yes, Pete; rather a change from England. But it is very beautiful, and I like it.” “Well, yes, sir; that’s right enough. So do I like it. I often think it would be just lovely if old Ripsy would get down with the fever. My word! what would he be like when Dr Morley had done with him, and he began to crawl about and use his cane to help him hobble, instead of being so jolly handy with it in his fashion?” “Peter Pegg, that’s a nasty, revengeful way of talking.” “Is it, sir?” said the young private, giving himself a twist, as if in recollection of a tap with the cane. “Yes. You don’t mean to tell me that you wish Sergeant Ripsy would catch this nasty jungle fever?” “No, sir, I don’t want to tell you; but I do.” “I don’t believe you, Pete. The Sergeant’s a fine soldier and a brave man, and I honestly believe that he thinks he is doing his duty.” “Oh, he’s brave enough, I dare say. So are you, sir.” “Bosh!” “So am I, sir.” “Double bosh! Turkish for nothing, Pete.” “Is it, sir? I don’t care. I know when the row comes off with that there Rajah Solomon—and there’s a pretty bit of cheek, sir: him, a reg’lar heathen, going and getting himself called by a Christian name! I should like to give him Solomon—you’ll fight with the best of them, sir. I often think about it. You’ll fight with the best of them, sir. And ’tain’t brag, Mr Archie Maine, sir—you let me see one of them beggars coming at you with his pisoned kris or his chuck-spear, do you mean to tell me I wouldn’t let him have the bayonet? And bad soldier or no, I can do the bayonet practice with the best of them. Old Tipsy did own to that.” “Look here, Pete; you are what the Yankees call blowing now. Let’s wait till the time comes, and then we shall see what we shall see. And look here; don’t you let me hear you call Sergeant Ripsy Tipsy again. One of these days, mark my words, he will find out that you have nicknamed him with a T instead of an R, and he will never forgive you.” “Tckkk!” “What are you laughing at, sir?” “Oh, don’t say sir, Mr Archie! There’s no one near. Of course I don’t mind when anybody’s by, but I couldn’t help laughing. Old Patient Job found it out long ago.” “He did?” “Yes, sir.” “And yet you wonder that he has got what you call his knife into you!” “Oh, I don’t think that’s why, sir.” “Well, I do.” “No, sir; it’s his aggravating way of wanting to see a company of human men going across the parade like a great big caterpillar or a big bit of a machine raking up the sand.” “Never mind. Old Ripsy is a fine soldier, and I advise you not to let him hear you.” “Pst!” “What is it?” “Mr Maine, sir,” whispered the lad; and the subaltern’s heels dropped at once from the table upon which they had been resting, for plainly heard through the window, in a loud, forced cough, full of importance, came the utterance, “Errrrum! Errum!” and Private Peter Pegg’s lower jaw dropped, and his eyes, as he fixed them upon the subaltern’s face, opened in so ghastly a stare of dread that, in spite of his annoyance, Ensign Maine’s hands were clapped to his mouth to check a guffaw. But as the regular stamp more than stride of a heavy man reached his ears, the young officer’s countenance assumed a look of annoyance, and he whispered in a boyish, nervous way: “Slip off, Pete; and don’t let him see you leaving my room.” “I can’t, sir,” whispered the lad, with a look full of agony. “What!” “He telled me if ever he catched me loafing about your quarters he’d—” “Don’t talk. Cut!” “I can’t, sir.” “You can.” “But—” “Don’t talk. Off at once.” “But I tell you, sir—” “I don’t want to be told. He mustn’t see you going away from here.” “But he’s stopped, sir. Can’t you hear?” “No—yes. Why has he stopped?” “Because he can see my two blessed buckets standing there.” “Oh, Peter Pegg! Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!” And as the young subaltern gave utterance to these homely sounds, he was recalling certain sarcastic remarks of the stern master of drill respecting officers and gentlemen demeaning themselves by associating with the men. Chapter Two. A Rowing. “A Guilty conscience needs no accuser,” said Archie Maine to himself. “There’s a splendid proverb. It can’t mean a wigging this time. But if that pompous old pump, that buckled-up basha, lets the Major know that he caught poor old Pegg in my room to-day, I’m sure to get a lecture about making too free with the men instead of going about amongst them perched up upon metaphorical stilts. Well, whatever he wants to see me about, it can’t be for a wigging, or else he wouldn’t have summoned me just close upon soup-and-’tater call.” The smart-looking young subaltern drew himself up, looking his military best, as he made for the Major’s quarters, before which, in light undress uniform, a private was marching up and down, crossing the doorway and the windows of the mess-room, through which the lamps of the dinner-table shone, as they were being lit by the servants. The regimental glass and plate were beginning to glitter on the table, while a soft, warm breeze was rustling the tropical leaves and beginning to cool the atmosphere, as it swept from the surrounding jungle through the widely opened casements. “Yes! Come in!” came in a loud, bluff, rather rich voice; and the next minute Archie was face to face with the fine-looking, white-haired, florid Major in command of the infantry detachment stationed at Campong Dang in support of Her Majesty’s Resident, Sir Charles Dallas, whose duty it was to instruct the Malay Rajah of Pahpah how to rule his turbulent bearers of spear and kris and wearers of sarong and baju, in accordance with modern civilisation, and without putting a period to their lives for every offence by means of the sudden insertion of an ugly-looking, wavy weapon before throwing them to the ugliest reptiles that ever haunted a muddy stream. “Ah! Hum! Yes.” There was a pause in the strange salute, and, “’Tis a row, then,” said Archie to himself. “You received my despatch, Mr Maine?” “Yes, sir.” “And of course, sir, you are perfectly aware of my reasons for summoning you?” “No, sir,” replied Archie. “W hat! Now, that’s what I intensely dislike, Mr Maine. If there is anything that annoys, irritates, or makes me dissatisfied with the men—the gentlemen under my command, it is evasion, shuffling, shirking, or prevarication.” At the beginning of this speech the young officer felt nervous and troubled with a feeling of anxiety, but his commanding officer’s tone and words sent the blood flushing up into his face, and he replied warmly: “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am neither shuffling nor prevaricating when I tell you that I do not know why you have sent for me.” Then to himself,— “He could not have known about the Sergeant, for that was after he had sent his note.” He had time to say this to himself, for the Major was staring at him in amazement. “W hat! W hat! W hat!” he exclaimed. “How—how dah you, sir? I’d have you to know that when I address my subordinates—ahem!—arrrum!—I—that is—hum—dear me, how confoundedly you have grown like your father, Archibald! Just his manner. I—that is—well, look here, sir; I have been very much put out about you. I promised my old comrade that I would do the best that I could in the way of helping you on and making you a useful officer and a thorough gentleman, and you know, between men, Archibald Maine, it has not been quite the thing. This is not the first time I have had to speak to you and complain of your conduct.” “No, sir,” said the lad in rather a sulky tone; “and when I was in fault I never shuffled or prevaricated.” “Never, Archie, my lad,” said the Major energetically. “It was bad form of me, but I was angry with your father’s son. My words were ill-chosen, and there—there—I apologise.” “Oh no, sir!” cried the lad, warming up and speaking excitedly; “there is no need for that. I suppose I have been in the wrong, but I did not really know what I had been doing when you sent your letter.” “Of course you did not, my boy; but—er—I was not thinking of that. It was about your conduct generally, and I had made up my mind to have you here and give you what you would call a wigging, Archie—eh?—wigging, sir! Dreadfully boyish expression!—and then, on second thoughts, I said to myself, ‘Much better to have the lad in quietly, break the ice and that sort of thing, tell him what I wanted to talk about, and then make him sit by me at the mess, and put it to him quietly over a glass of wine.’ Understand, my lad?” Archie’s lips parted to speak, but the recollection of many old kindnesses began to crowd up so that he could not trust his voice, and he only nodded. “That’s right. You see, my lad, your father and I were boys together—not perfect either. We used to quarrel frightfully. Well, sir, something inside me began to remind me of old times, and make apologies for you, and I was going to talk to you about being an officer and a gentleman—and dignity of manner, and impressing yourself upon your men—just point out that an officer can be kind to his lads and slacken the discipline a little sensibly without losing tone or touch, but there must be a proper feeling between officer and man. An officer need not be a bully and a tyrant, but he must be firm. His men must respect him, and see that the man who leads them knows his duty and is brave almost to a fault; and knowing this, every man who is worth his salt will follow him even to the death if duty calls. It is a grand position, Archie, my lad—that of being a leader of men—and it is shared with the General by the youngest subaltern who wears the Queen’s scarlet. See what I mean?” “Yes, sir,” said the lad in a deep, low voice. “Well, sir,” almost shouted the Major, “that’s what I was going to say to you, sir, over a glass of wine to-night, and put it to you that it was quite time that you, a young man grown, should put away boyish things and come to an end of tricks and pranks and youthful follies, and take upon you and show that you are worthy of the great birthright—manhood, when—confound it all! I was nearly breaking out swearing!—in comes to me that—hang him!—that overbearing bully—Yah! Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!—it put me out dreadfully, and I am speaking in haste, for Ripsy is a fine, trustworthy man— my best non-com—to complain to me about you making a chum, a regular companion, of that confounded, low-bred cockney rascal, Pegg. Hang him! I’ll have his peg sharpened and make him spin in a more upright manner before I have done with him! Ripsy told me that the fellow was on fatigue- work—takes advantage of the freedom of his position to sneak off to your quarters to hatch some prank or mischief or another; and I had to listen to his complaint and—confound him!—to answer his question, ‘Is it right for a subaltern to encourage a low-bred rascal like that to come to his quarters?’ What do you say?” “It was my fault, sir, entirely.” “Yes; and that’s your fault too, Archibald Maine. You take a fancy to and make a companion of a private who bears the worst character in this detachment. You see even now, sir, you have made so much of a companion of him that you are ready to take the blame for his fault.” “In this case rightly, sir,” said Archie, speaking with firmness. “I had jerked your note out of the window, and as the poor fellow passed—” “Poor fellow!” cried the Major irritably. “There, again!” “I told him to pick it up and bring it in,” continued Archie firmly; and the Major grunted, for he was evidently cooling down. “There! Humph! Dinner,” grunted the Major again. “Now, quick! What have you got to say?” Archie was silent for a few moments, for the simple reason that he could not speak, only stand trying to gaze steadily in the eyes of the fine old officer, who was watching him intently with a look that forced him to speak at last; but even then his voice shook a little, in spite of his efforts to make it firm and loud. Then the word that had struggled for utterance came, and it was in Latin: “Peccavi.” It was only that word, but it was enough to make the old Major lean forward, clap one hand on the lad’s shoulder, and half-whisper: “Spoken like your father’s son!” and then, as the door behind him opened, he half-shouted, “Coming!” Then to his companion, “Now, my lad—dinner!” Chapter Three. A Malay Friend. Archie Maine’s sensations as he marched beside his chief into the mess-room were such that he would far rather have escaped to his own quarters; but he began to pull himself together as he caught sight of a friend, and the next minute he was being in turn introduced by the quiet, gentlemanly Resident to the Rajah Suleiman, a heavy-looking, typical Malay with peculiar, hard, dark eyes and thick, smiling lips, who greeted him in fair English and murmured something about “visit” and the “elephants and tigers.” And then, as the Eastern chief, who did not look at home in the English evening-dress he had adopted, turned away to smile upon another of the officers, Archie joined hands at once with a slight, youthful-looking visitor also in evening-dress, who as the youths chatted together showed his mastery of the English language sufficiently to address the subaltern as “old chap,” following it up with: “When are you going to get your boss to give you a day or two’s leave?” “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Archie. “Not for some time; I’m in disgrace.” “Disgrace! What do you mean?” was the inquiry. “Oh, not sticking enough to my duties.” “Duties?” “Yes; drill and practice.” “Oh, nonsense! You don’t want to be always drilling and drilling and drilling. Your men could kill us all off without any more of that. I shall ask the Major to let you come and stay with me a month.” “No, no, no,” said Archie, though his eyes were flashing with eagerness. “And I say yes, yes, yes. I haven’t got such a troop of elephants as Rajah Suleiman, but I have got two beauties who would face any tiger in the jungle, and my people could show you more stripes than his could. But perhaps I am so simple at home that you would rather go and stay with His Highness.” “Look here, Hamet,” whispered Archie quickly; “you said that to me last time, just as if I had slighted you.” “Beg pardon, old chap. I didn’t mean it; but your people—I don’t know how it is—don’t seem to take to me. I always feel as if they didn’t trust me, and I don’t think that I shall care about coming here any more.” “W hat!” cried Archie excitedly, as he found that he had to take his seat at the table beside the young Rajah, whose face was beginning to assume a lowering aspect, as he saw that the Major’s original intentions had been hurriedly set aside and the chair on the latter’s right was occupied by the Rajah Suleiman, that on his left by a keen, sharp-looking gentleman who might have been met in one of the Parisian cafés, so thoroughly out of place did he seem in a military mess-room rather roughly erected in a station on the banks of a Malay jungle river. “W hat!” said Archie again, in a low tone; and he noted how his companion was furtively watching the attention paid to his brother Rajah. “I’ll tell you presently,” said the young Malay. “But who is that gentleman?” “That? Oh, he’s a traveller. He’s a French count.” “French count?” said his companion. “A great friend of Suleiman’s, isn’t he?” “Not that I know of.” “Yes, he is. So one of my people says.” “Oh?” said Archie. “Yes; Suleiman met him when he went to Paris.” “You seem to know all about it,” said Archie laughingly. “Oh no; I want to know everything, but there is so much—so much to learn. I wish I had gone to Paris too.” “What! so as to get to know the French count?” “Pish!—No, thank you; I don’t take wine,” he added quickly, as one of the officers’ servants was filling glasses. “Won’t you have a glass of hock?” “No,” was the quiet reply. “And I don’t want to know the French count. I don’t like him.” “Why?” “Because he is Suleiman’s friend.” “That’s saying you don’t like Suleiman.” “No. But I don’t like him, and he hates me.” “Why?” “Because he likes my country.” “And I suppose you like his?” “I? No. I have got plenty of land that my father left me. He sent me—you know; I told you—to England.” “Yes, I know; to be educated and made an English gentleman.” “Yes,” said the young man, with a sigh; and his handsome half-Spanish countenance clouded over. “And I did work so hard to make myself like you young Englishmen; but I had not the chance.” “But you did splendidly. I heard of how high a position you took.” The young Rajah smiled sadly and shook his head. “You say that as a sort of compliment,” he said. “That I don’t. I never pay compliments, for I know you don’t like them. If you did, you and I shouldn’t be such friends.” The young Rajah turned and gazed fixedly in the speaker’s eyes for a few moments, and then turned hastily to help himself from the dish handed to him. “No, we shouldn’t,” he said in a low voice as soon as the dish was removed; and he began to trifle with the food. “Yes,” he continued, “those were jolly days at the big school; and it seemed so strange to come back here from studies and cricket and football.” He laughed softly as he turned merrily to look at his companion again. “I say, how I used to get knocked about! The chaps used to say that it got my monkey up, but I suppose it did me good.” “No doubt,” said Archie merrily. “You got over wanting to kris the fellows, didn’t you?” “Of course; and it made me so English that I don’t want to kris the poor fellows now that I have come back and am Maharajah here in my father’s stead. But it was all no good,” he added, with a sigh. “What?” exclaimed Archie wonderingly. “No good,” repeated the young man. “He sent for me to come home, but it was only to say good-bye and tell me that I was to love the English and be their friend so as to make them my friends. ‘They are a great people, Hamet,’ he said—‘a great people. We are only little chiefs, but they can rule the world.’ I want to be their friend, but somehow they don’t like me but make much of Suleiman.” “Oh, wait a bit,” said Archie. “I think you are wrong. We English are such blunt people. W hy, our Major—he was my father’s schoolfellow—he’s a splendid old chap.” “Yes; but he doesn’t trust me,” said the young Malay. “Oh, you wait.” “I like your doctor.” “Well, you must like Sir Charles Dallas.” “What! Suleiman’s Resident? I don’t know him. Your English Queen—I mean Her Majesty—” “Yes, I know,” said Archie, laughing. “She has not sent a Resident to live in my country.” “No. Do you know why?” “Yes,” said the young man coldly. “She does not trust me.” “Ha, ha, ha!” “Why do you laugh?” “At you.” “But why?” “Because she does trust you—or, rather, our Government does.” The young man turned sharply to gaze with a searching glance in the speaker’s eyes. “What do you mean?” he said. “Go on with your dinner, old chap, and I’ll tell you by-and-by. Here’s Down wants to have a word with you.—Don’t you, Down?” “Ah yes, Captain Down,” said the young Rajah, bowing towards him. “I seem to know you. Maine says you are such a splendid shot. Are you?” “Oh, I can pull a trigger, and I can hit something sometimes,” said the young officer. “Sometimes!” put in Archie. “W hy, he never misses. You ought to know more of him, Rajah. He’s like that old country gentleman’s two sons who loved hunting and shooting. He’s a regular Nimrod and Ramrod rolled into one. Understand?” “Yes; I read that in the old joke-book. Then your friend will come and have some shooting. W ill you not?” “Rather!” said the Captain; and the general conversation went on till the old English custom was in the ascendant and the Major gave Her Majesty’s health and the band played “God save the Queen;” and afterwards the Major proposed the health of their guest, His Highness Sultan Suleiman, who afterwards rose and bowed two or three times, said a few words very clumsily, and then turned towards the distingué-looking guest on the Major’s left, and sat down; whereupon the French guest said a few words to the Major, who rose and announced that the Count de Lasselle would respond for the Sultan Suleiman. There was the customary applause as the Count arose; and in very good English, which he only had to supplement now and then with a strong dash of French, he returned thanks for their illustrious guest, who, he could assure the English officers, had but one aim in life, and that was to be the friend and ally of the great British Queen. His speech was long and very flowery, and he did not forget to say that there was no other country in the world suited to be the Sultan’s ally but beautiful France, his own country, he was proud to say, and he was sure that she too would always be the great friend of the Sultan; at which some one at the table uttered in a low voice that was almost like a cough the ejaculation, “Hum!” Archie turned sharply, and exchanged glances with Captain Down. “What did the Doctor mean by that?” said the latter. “Don’t know,” said Archie. “Shall I go and ask him?” “By-and-by. Look at your friend.” “Why? What do you mean?” “He looks as if he felt that he was being left out in the cold.” Archie glanced at the young Rajah, who was sitting back picking his cigarette to pieces; and then his attention was taken up by seeing the big, bluff Sergeant of the regiment making his way behind the chairs to where the Doctor was seated. “It’s all right, Maine,” said the Captain; “you needn’t go. The Major’s sent Patient Job, as the lads call him, to ask old Bolus what he means by insulting the French guest.” “Get out! Somebody taken ill. I hope it’s none of the ladies.” The Doctor nodded, and left his chair, to follow the Sergeant, just as the Major rose again to propose the health of the regiment’s other guest that evening, Maharajah Hamet, another of the chiefs, who had declared himself the friend of their Queen and country. The toast was quietly received, and quietly replied to in a few well-spoken words by the young Prince, not without eliciting some remarks at his mastery of English; and soon after the party broke up in smoke, the officers strolling down to the banks of the river, where the landing-place was gay with Chinese lanterns hung here and there and ornamenting the two nagas of the Rajahs lying some distance apart and filled by the well-armed followers of the chiefs, one of whom was heartily cheered by those assembled as he slowly walked in company with his French companion to take his seat, before, in response to three or four sonorous notes from a gong, the yellow-uniformed rowers dipped their oars lightly, to keep the dragon-boat in mid-stream so that it might be borne swiftly onward. The young Rajah Hamet remained some few minutes longer, after taking his leave of the Major and officers, and then, accompanied by Captain Down and Archie, he walked slowly along to where a guard of the English infantry was drawn up, the chief’s men being waiting in their places, ready to push off. “Don’t take this as a compliment,” said the young Malay. “It is all sincere, and I can make you very welcome in good old English fashion as long as you like to stay—you, Captain Down, and you, Maine. You make the Captain come too. I promise you plenty of sport. My shikaris know their business. Once more, good-night.” He stepped back, the long, live-looking boat glided off, and the rowers’ oars dipped with the vim and accuracy of an eight-oared racer on the Thames. But she made head slowly against the swift stream, while, as the young men watched her, their eyes rested upon the fire-flies glittering amongst the overhanging trees upon the banks, and all at once there was a loud splash just ahead of where the naga was gliding. “What’s that—some one overboard?” said the Captain. “No, sir,” said a deep British voice from just behind where the young officers stood; “only one of them great, scaly varmints getting out of the way.” “Oh, it’s you, Sergeant,” said Archie quickly; and then, on the impulse of the moment, the lad laid his hand on the big non-com’s arm and said hurriedly, “I’ve had it out with the Major, Ripsy, and it’s all right now. But it was all my fault. Don’t be too hard on poor Pegg.” The Sergeant’s reply was checked by a question from the Captain: “Whom was the Doctor fetched to see? Any one ill?” The Sergeant chuckled. “No, sir. It was them rival niggers beginning to cut one another’s throats; but I stopped it with my lads, and then fetched the Doctor. It gave him three or four little jobs. Some on them mean a row.” Chapter Four. The Doctor’s Patients. The looking-glass in Archie Maine’s quarters often told him that he was rather a good-looking young fellow; that is to say, he gave promise of growing into a well-featured, manly youth without any foppish, effeminate, so-called handsomeness. But nature had been very kind to him, and, honestly, he scarcely knew anything about his own appearance; for when he looked in his glass for reasons connected with cleanliness—putting his hair straight, smoothing over his curliness, and playing at shaving away, or, rather, scraping off, some very smooth down—he had a habit of contracting his nerves and muscles so that a pretty good display of wrinkles came into view all over his forehead and at the corners of his lips and eyes, presenting to him quite a different-looking sort of fellow from the one known to his friends. The morning after the mess dinner, he had given a parting glance in his little mirror, looking very much screwed-up, for his mind was busy with rather troublous thoughts, among which were the events of the past day, especially those connected with his interview with the Major. Then he had hurried off to take advantage of what little time he had before going on duty, and made for the Doctor’s bungalow. It was not much of a place; but the glorious tropic foliage, the distant view of the river, and, above all, the flowers of the most brilliant colours that were always rushing into bloom or tumbling off to deck the ground made it a brilliant spot in the station, and as he neared it his face smoothed, his sun-browned forehead lost its wrinkles, and, just as he expected, he caught sight of the two reasons for the bungalow looking so bright and gay. One reason was the Doctor’s wife busy in the garden with a basket and a pair of scissors, snipping off bunch and cluster ready for filling vase and basin in the shaded rooms; the other was standing upon a chair helping climber to twine and tendril to catch hold of trellis and wire which made the front of the cottage-like structure one blaze of colour. “Morning, ladies,” cried the lad. “Morning, Archie,” cried the Doctor’s wife, a pleasant, middle-aged, pink, sunshiny-looking lady, whose smooth skin seemed to possess the power of reflecting all sun-rays that played upon it so that they never fixed there a spot of tan. “Come to help garden?” “Yes; all right. What shall I do?” cried the lad. “Make Minnie jump down off that chair, and tuck up the wild tendrils of that climber.” “No, no, auntie; I don’t want him,” cried the owner of the busy hands, as she reached up higher to hook on one tendril, and failed; for the long strand laden with blossom missed the wire that ought to have held it, fell backwards, and, as if directed by invisible fairy hands, formed itself into a wreath over her hair, startling her so that she would have lost her footing upon the chair had she not made a quick leap to the floor of the veranda, bringing down another trailing strand. “Ha, ha! Serve you right, Miss Independence!” cried Archie, running to her help. “No, no, don’t. I can do it myself,” cried the girl. “Mind; that flower’s so tender, and I know you will break it.” “Suppose I do,” said Archie. “No, you don’t; I’ll take it off and twine it up myself, even if my fingers are so clumsy. I say, Minnie, it’s lucky for you that it isn’t that climbing rose, or there would be some scratches.” He sprang upon the chair, busied himself for a few minutes, and then leaped down again, to stand with brow wrinkled, gazing up at his work. “There,” he said; “won’t that do?” “Yes,” said the girl, with a slight pout of two rather pretty lips. “It will do; but it isn’t high enough.” “Oh, come, it’s higher than you could have reached.—Don’t say the Doctor’s out, Mrs Morley?” “No; but he’s got somebody with him;” and the speaker glanced at her niece, who turned away and looked conscious. “I am not surprised,” continued the Doctor’s wife, and she looked fixedly now at her visitor. “What at?” replied the lad wonderingly. “How innocent!—What do you say, Minnie? Look at him!” The girl turned sharply, fixed her eyes upon the young officer’s face, and laughed merrily. “W hat are you laughing at?” he cried, hurriedly taking out a handkerchief. “Have I made my face dirty?” “No, sir.—We were quite right, auntie. I can’t think how young men can be so stupid.” “’Tis their nature to,” said Archie, laughing, as he replaced his handkerchief. “But what have I been doing stupid now, Minnie?” “Sitting in a hot room and drinking what doesn’t agree with you, sir.” “I couldn’t help the room being hot,” replied the lad, rather indignantly. “No, sir; but you could have helped giving yourself a headache and coming here this morning to ask uncle for a cooling draught.” “Oh, that’s it, is it, Miss Clever? Well, you are all wrong.” “I am glad to hear it, Archie,” said Mrs Morley. “I thought you had come to see the Doctor.” “That’s right,” said the lad, screwing up his face again and nodding rather defiantly, boy and girl fashion, at the young lady gardener. “Somebody ill?” “No, my dear boy. It’s only Sir Charles Dallas;” and as she spoke she glanced at her niece again, who had suddenly become busy over a fresh loose strand. “He’s come to ask about the men who were wounded in that wretched quarrel last night.” “Why, that’s what I came for.—Do you hear, Minnie?” Just then a door somewhere in the interior was opened, and men’s voices reached their ears, one being the Doctor’s. “No, nothing to worry about, sir; do them good.” “Ah, you keep to your old belief in the lancet, then, Doctor,” came in the Resident’s pleasant, firm tones. “In a case like this, certainly, sir. All the better for losing a little of their hot, fiery blood. Set of quarrelsome, jealous fools. Here we are, thousands of miles from home and Ould Ireland, amongst these tribes, all of them spoiling for a fight.” “Yes, Doctor,” said the Resident, slowly approaching as he crossed the room; “but I hope to get them tamed down in time.” “Ha, ha!” laughed the Doctor, as the two gentlemen came in sight.—“Hear him, Minnie! W hat’s the quotation—‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast?’” “I forget uncle.” “More shame for you.—Hope away, Dallas; but you will never tame the fighting spirit out of a Malay.— Morning, Archie, my lad. What do you say?” “I say that Rajah Hamet is tame enough, only one ought not to talk about him as if he were a wild beast.—Good-morning, Sir Charles?” “Morning, my lad,” replied the Resident, with a peculiar smile. “Have you got a head on this morning?” “No, sir, I haven’t got a head on this morning,” cried the boy angrily, and with his sun-browned cheeks flushing up. “I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you had come to see the Doctor.” “So I have,” said Archie, drawing himself up and glancing across at Minnie, and then giving himself an angry jerk as he saw that she was laughing. “Do you want to see me, Maine?” said the Doctor. “Yes, sir, if you are at liberty.” “Yes; all right, my lad.—Don’t trouble yourself, Dallas. That will be all right.—Into my room, Maine;” and he led the way into a pleasant, comfortably furnished room looking out upon the clearing at the back, a room evidently the Doctor’s surgery more than consulting-room, but whose formality was softened down by the cut-flowers which indicated the busy interference of the ladies of the house. “Sit down, my lad,” continued the Doctor, as he took a bamboo chair opposite that to which he had motioned his visitor; and gazing searchingly at him, he reached out his hand: “Head queer?” “No, no, sir,” cried the subaltern, with his brow wrinkling up again. “I only wanted to know about last night and the men wounded.” “Oh! That’s what Sir Charles came about. Well, it’s nothing much, my boy. It’s rather a large pull on my roll of sticking-plaster and a few bandages—rival clans or houses—do you bite your thumb at me, sir?—eh—Montagus and Capulets. Consequence of men carrying lethal weapons—only krises instead of rapiers. Bad thing to let men carry arms.” “What about soldiers, then, sir?” said Archie merrily. “Bayonets, side-arms?” “Ah, but there we have a discipline, my dear boy. But, all the same, it has fallen to my lot to treat a bayonet-dig or two when our fellows have got at the rack. Well, I am glad you are all right. I thought you looked a little fishy about the gills.” “Not I, sir. I managed a splendid breakfast this morning.” “Yes, boy; you are good that way. I often envy you, for what with my health and every one’s health to think about, doctoring one man for fever, putting all you fellows straight, and patching up squabbling savages, my appetite often feels as if it wants a fillip. A doctor’s is an anxious life, my boy—more especially out here in a country like this, amongst a very uncertain people, when a man feels that he has a stake in the country.” “But you have no stake in the country, sir?” “What, sir! I? Haven’t I my wife and my sister’s child?” “Oh, I thought you meant something commercial, sir.” “What! I? Pooh, boy! I was alluding to the uncertainty of our position here.” “Oh! Oh, I see, sir. That’s all right enough. Here’s Sir Charles with a strong detachment of British infantry under his command, and the native chiefs are bound to respect him.” “Tremendous!” said the Doctor, with a snort. “A couple of hundred men!” “Three, sir.” “Three indeed! W hat about the men on the sick-list, and the non-combatants that have to be counted in every squad? W hy, if that fellow Suleiman turned nasty, where should we be, out here in the depths of this jungle?” “Oh, there’s no occasion to fear anything of that sort, sir.” “W hat! Not for a boy like you, Archie Maine, with a suit or two of clothes, a razor, and hair-brush. You put on your cap, and you cover all your responsibilities. W hat about the women, high and low, that we have to look after?” “Oh, they’d be all right, sir.” “Would they?” “I say, Doctor, don’t talk like that. You don’t think that we have anything to fear?” “I don’t know.—Well, fear? No, I suppose I mustn’t mention such a thing as fear; but we are hundreds of miles away from Singapore and help.” “Oh no, sir. There’s the river. It wouldn’t take long for the gunboat to bring up reinforcements and supplies; and then, even if Mr Sultan Suleiman turned against us—which isn’t likely—” “I don’t know,” growled the Doctor. “Well, sir, I think I do,” said Archie, rather importantly. “W hy, if he did, there’s our friend the Rajah Hamet. He would be on our side.” “Ah, that I don’t know,” said the Doctor again; and he tapped the table with his nails. “This is all in confidence, boy. I don’t think Sir Charles has much faith in that young gentleman. But still, that’s the way that our Government worked things in India.” “I don’t quite understand you.” “Read up your history, then, my boy. Our position in India has been made by the jealousies of the different princes and our political folks working them one against another. But there, you didn’t come here to chatter politics. What is it? You have got something more to say to me, haven’t you?” “Well—er—yes, sir,” hesitated the lad. “Out with it, boy. Never play with your medical man. No half-confidences. I can pretty well read you, Archie, so out with it frankly.” “Well, sir, I did half make up my mind to speak to you, and came this morning on purpose; and then as soon as I saw you I felt that it was foolish—a sort of fancy of mine.” “Well, go on; let me judge. You have got something the matter with you?” “That’s what I don’t quite know, sir,” said the young man, who was now scarlet. “Well, don’t shilly-shally. Let me judge. Is it some bodily ailment?” “No, sir.” “Glad of it. What is it, then? It can’t be money.” “Oh no, sir.” “Of course not. No temptations here to spend. Then you have got into some big scrape?” “I am always getting into scrapes, sir.” “Yes; and the Major had you up to give you a wigging, as you call it, only yesterday.” “How did you know that, sir?” cried the lad excitedly. “The Doctor knows pretty well everything about people, and what he doesn’t know for himself his women find out for him. Now then, what is it?” “I am afraid you will laugh at me, sir.” “I promise you I shall not.” “Thank you, sir; that’s encouraging.” “To the point, boy—to the point.” Archie Maine drew a deep breath as if to pull himself together, and then as he met the Doctor’s searching eyes they seemed to draw out of him that which he wished to say. “I am afraid, Doctor,” he said excitedly, “that I have got something wrong with my head.” “Why? Pain you? Feeling of confusion?” The lad shook the part of his person mentioned. “Dizziness?” “Oh no, sir; nothing of that sort.” “Well, go on. A doctor isn’t a magician. Have you got a bad tooth? You must tell him which one to attack with his key preliminary to the scraunch.” “Oh, you are laughing at me, Doctor.” “Only smiling, my dear boy.” “I don’t see anything to laugh at, sir, because it is a serious thing to me.” “Good lad. I smiled because I felt happy over you since it didn’t seem to be anything serious.” “But it is serious, sir.” “Let’s hear. You say you have got something wrong with your head?” “Well, I suppose it is my head, sir. But you know I am always getting into some trouble or another.” “Exactly. You are notorious for your boyish pranks.” “Yes, sir; and I want to get the better of it. It’s as the Major said: the troubles I get into are boys’ troubles, and not suitable to a young man.” “The Major’s wise, Archie. Then why don’t you put off all your boyish mischief and remember that you are now pretty well a man grown, and, as one of our lads would say in his cockney lingo, ‘act as sich?’” “Because I can’t, Doctor,” said the lad earnestly. “I want to act as a man. I’m six feet two, and I shave regularly.” “Humph!” grunted the Doctor, who had to make an effort to keep his countenance. “And whenever I get into trouble I make a vow that I’ll never do such a childish, schoolboyish thing again; but it’s no use, for before many days have passed, something tempts me, and I find myself doing more foolish things than ever. Can it be that there is some screw loose in my head?” The Doctor sat looking earnestly in the lad’s agitated countenance, for his brow was one tangle of deeply marked wrinkles. “I think sometimes I must be going mad, or at all events growing into an idiot, and you can’t think how wretched and despairing it makes me. Do you think medicine—tonic or anything of that sort— would do me good?” The Doctor gazed at the lad fixedly till he could bear it no longer, and he was about to speak again, when the adviser uttered a loud expiration of the breath, jumping up at the same time and clapping his hands heavily on his visitor’s shoulders. “No, my lad, I don’t,” he cried boisterously. “You are sound as a bell, strong as a young horse. W hy, you ought to be proud of yourself instead of fidgeting with a lot of morbid fancies. You have been for years and years a boy, fresh—larky, as you would say—full of mischief, as I was myself—” “You, Doctor! Impossible!” “W hat! Ha, ha! W hy, Archie Maine, I have watched you pretty thoroughly since we have been friends, noted your pranks, and seen the trouble you have got into with the Major. Oh yes; I believe I was much worse than you. And you are now changing into the man, when most fellows of your age begin thinking more of others than of themselves; though they are pretty good at that latter, and particularly fond of arranging their plumage so as to excite admiration. But you held on to your merry, mischievous boyhood, so take my...