Trapped by Malays: A Tale of Bayonet and Kris. George Manville Fenn
at Campong Dang, the station on the Ruah River, far up the west coast of the Malay Peninsula.
“What does the old chap want now? Another wigging, I suppose. What 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! What 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. What’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.”
“What, 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?”