One Maid's Mischief

The latter stopped until Mrs Bolter’s eyes were in another direction, and then stole behind the awning to where Chumbley was seating himself, with his back against the side of the boat, the steersman looking at his great proportions with admiration the while.

“What is it, Chumbley?” said the doctor. “Not poorly, eh?”

“Never better in my life, doctor! Come and have a cigar.”

The doctor glanced forward, but they were completely hidden from sight; and with a sigh of satisfaction, he took a cigar from Chumbley’s case, lit it, and choosing a comfortable place, seated himself. Then like the lieutenant, he half closed his eyes, and enjoyed the delicious motion of the rippling water with the glorious panorama of foliage they passed.

“I say, steersman, have a cigar?” said Chumbley, to the tall, swarthy Malay, in his picturesque yellow satin dress.

The man did not understand his words, but he quite comprehended the act; and he showed his betel-stained teeth as he took the proffered cigar, and lit it from the one the lieutenant placed in his hands.

Then they went on and on, up glorious reach after reach of the river, startling reptiles on the banks, and bright-hued birds from the trees that overhung the stream.

“I say, doctor,” said Chumbley at last, in his lazy drawl, “what are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking that it can’t be long before my wife comes and finds me out.”

There was a pause, during which Chumbley laughed to himself.

“What are you thinking about, Chumbley?” said the doctor, suddenly.

Chumbley looked up suddenly at the steersman.

“Do you understand any English at all, old fellow?” he said; and the man shook his head.

“I was thinking, doctor,” said Chumbley, in a low voice, “what a go it would be if the Rajah has got us all in this boat here, and is taking us up the river never to come back any more.”

“What, on account of that upset a month ago?”

“Yes.”

“Murder!” ejaculated the doctor.

“Yes,” said Chumbley, “for us men; but I think I should be more sorry for the other sex.”

Volume One – Chapter Twenty Six.

Up the River

Doctor Bolter nearly let fall the cigar he was smoking, for his jaw suddenly dropped; but by a clever snatch of the hand he caught it, and replaced it in his lips, as he glanced at the showily-dressed steersman to see if he had noticed the display of agitation.

“I say, Chumbley, don’t be a stupid,” he said, in a low voice, as he brushed some of the cigar-ash from his white linen tunic.

“Certainly not,” replied the lieutenant, coolly. “I only said what I thought.”

“But you don’t think such a thing as that possible, do you?”

“Don’t know. Can’t say. It’s rather awkward out here, though, to be in a place where you can’t call in the police if you want them.”

“Dear me! Bless my soul!” ejaculated the doctor, taking his cigar in his hand, and looking at the burning end. “But, oh, no! it’s all nonsense. He wouldn’t dare to do such a thing.”

“No,” drawled Chumbley; “I don’t suppose he would.”

“Then why the dickens did you put forth such an idea?” cried the doctor, angrily. “Bah! that’s the worst cigar I ever smoked.”

He threw it over the side, and it gave an angry hiss as it fell into the water.

“Try another, doctor,” said Chumbley, offering his case. “It’s of no use to make yourself miserable about it if it is as I say.”

“But the ladies!” cried the doctor. “My poor little wife,” he added, softly.

“Well, they would be no better off if we make ourselves wretched,” said Chumbley, coolly.

“Bight away from all help! Not so much as a bottle of quinine at hand!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Ah, that’s a pity,” said Chumbley. “Here, light a fresh cigar, man, and don’t look like that amiable person who pulled Priam’s curtains in the dead of the night. Come, doctor, I thought you fellows were always calm.”

“So we are,” cried the doctor, feeling his own pulse. “Ninety-four! That’s pretty good for this climate. Yes, I’ll take another cigar. But I say, Chumbley, this is very awkward.”

“Would be very awkward, you mean.”

“Yes, of course. And we are all unarmed.”

“Well, not quite all,” said Chumbley. “Being a sort of man-at-arms – a kind of wasp amongst the human insects – I always carry my sting.”

“What! have you anything with you?”

“Pistol and a few cartridges,” replied Chumbley, coolly.

“And I should have had my gun. You know my little double-barrelled Adams, don’t you?”

“Yes; the one with the dent in the stock.”

“That’s the one, my lad! Well, I should have had that with me if it had not been for Mrs Bolter. I wanted to bring it, so as to collect a little, and she said it was folly, so I had to put it away. Have the others any arms?”

“Two apiece,” said Chumbley. “Fleshy.”

“And you can joke at a time like this?” exclaimed the doctor excitedly, while the swarthy steersman looked down at him wonderingly.

“Well, where’s the use of doing anything else about what was only a passing fancy on my part. Come, doctor, smoke your cigar in peace. Perhaps, after all, Murad means to be as amiable as host can be, and we shall all get back to the station, having found no worse enemies than the sun and the champagne.”

“Champagne? Nonsense, man. We shall have to drink palm wine.”

“Perhaps so; but I’ll make an affidavit, as the lawyers call it, that there are half a dozen cases on board with the brand Pfüngst, Épernay upon them, and – ”

“Look – look!” exclaimed the doctor, laying his hand upon his companion’s arm.

“What – what at?” said Chumbley, coolly. “I don’t see anything dangerous.”