One Maid's Mischief Part 62

As for Chumbley he was too weary to dream, but slept on as calmly as if he were in his own cot at the fort; perhaps more calmly, for the well-ventilated room was shaded by waving cocoa-palms and the branches of a great durian-tree, while the large leaves of banana kept the sun-rays from the gla.s.sless window.

At intervals of about an hour the Malay came in, and stepping softly towards them, seemed to a.s.sure himself that they were both asleep, going out directly with a satisfied smile as he saw how calmly they were resting.

"They are brave men, these English," he muttered. "They will do. It is right. They do not know but that this may be their last day on earth, and yet they sleep."

Mid-day had long pa.s.sed before Chumbley awoke suddenly, as if influenced by the presence of the tall Malay, who was standing by him.

"Hallo, old chap!" he drawled, "have I been asleep? I say, have I been asleep?" he added, in the Malay tongue.

"Since morning, rajah, and it is now past mid-day," replied the Malay, respectfully.

"Here, hi! Hilton! Wake up, old man!" cried Chumbley; and his fellow-prisoner leaped up, looking vacantly before him for a moment or two, and then growing angry as he realised where they were.

The Malay retired at once, and a couple of fresh men entered, bringing bra.s.s basins with water, cloths, and English-made hair brushes, and soap. These the two officers gladly used, Chumbley uttering grunts of satisfaction as he indulged in a good wash, and ended by carefully adjusting his short crisp hair.

"That's better, lad," he said. "One feels more like a human being now."

"Yes," replied Hilton, smiling. "It is surprising what a degraded creature a man feels when he has not made acquaintance for some hours with soap and water."

"Come, that's more cheery, my n.o.ble. Why, I believe, old fellow, that this affair is doing you good!"

"I suppose I am a little rested," said Hilton, quietly. "Take away those things," he said to the Malays, who both bowed respectfully and withdrew.

"I say, Hilton," said Chumbley, "I suppose this really is Murad's game, isn't it?"

"No doubt. Of course it is!"

"Well, he is doing the thing civilly. I wonder whether he treats all his prisoners like this? Hallo! what's this mean--an execution sheet or a tablecloth?"

"The latter," said Hilton, quickly.

"And quite right too," exclaimed Chumbley. "I say, how hungry I do feel!"

These last remarks were elicited by the fact that the tall Malay had returned, ushering in half a dozen more, who quickly spread a white tablecloth in the English fashion; and to the surprise of the prisoners they were served with a capital breakfast, which included, among native luxuries, coffee, very good claret, roast and curried chickens, and fairly-made bread.

"Look here," said Chumbley, who was staring ravenously at the preparations, "if you have any suspicions about the food being poisoned, don't say a word about it, old man, until I have fed."

"Oh, absurd!" replied Hilton. "Why should it be poisoned?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to know!" exclaimed Chumbley. "Only let us leave all other discussion till we have discussed our breakfast;" and seating himself in the Malay fashion upon the floor, he at once set an example to his companion, that Hilton was fain to follow.

"As that fellow said somewhere, 'a child might play with me now,'"

sighed Chumbley, and wiping his lips, in token of having finished, he leaned back against the divan. "Done?"

"Yes," said Hilton, gloomily, "I have done."

"I wish you had done being glumpy," said Chumbley. "Why, this is quite a pleasant change. I say, executioner," he cried, in the Malay tongue, "I have emptied my case. Can we have some cigars?"

The tall Malay, who had been standing with folded arms, looking like a swarthy statue, bowed respectfully, and left the room, the men coming in directly to remove the remains of the breakfast; while their leader returned at the end of a few minutes with a box of cigars, a jar of tobacco, and a couple of large pipes, one of which, a kind of hookah, Chumbley at once appropriated, filled, and began to smoke.

"I say, Hilton, old man, failing the costume--which wants brushing, by the way--I feel quite the Rajah. Take it easy, lad. 'Tisn't half bad for a change."

"Hang it, Chumbley, you would make yourself contented anywhere!" cried Hilton, who, now that his hunger was appeased, began to grow angry once more. "Put down that pipe, and let's see if we cannot contrive some means of getting away from here."

"Eh?"

"I say put away that pipe, and let's plan how to get away."

"Not if I know it," replied Chumbley. "The tobacco is delicious, and I'm not going to spoil my digestion by putting myself in a fever directly after a meal."

"But we must make some plans!" cried Hilton.

"Must we? Well, by-and-by will do. I'm very comfortable; and as long as a fellow is comfortable, what more can he want? There, light up and do as I do. I don't know that I want to escape at all if the _cuisine_ is to be kept up to this mark."

"But we are prisoners!"

"So we are at the island, man alive. We couldn't help being brought here; but now we are here, we may as well make the best of it. What splendid tobacco! Real Latakie!"

Hilton fretted and fumed; and finding that he could not move his friend, he went to door and window, examined the walls, and looked up at the open roof; but Chumbley did not move, he merely seemed to be studying their position in the coolest way.

"Look here, sit down, old fellow," he exclaimed at last, just as Hilton had worked himself into a heat, "it doesn't seem to me to be of any use to fret and fume. Have a little patience, and let's see whether this has been done by our dark friend, or else what it does mean."

"How can a man have patience," cried Hilton, "seized in this ruffianly way!"

"'Twas rough certainly," said Chumbley, slowly.

"Torn from his quarters--"

"To better ones, my dear old man. Let's play fair. One doesn't get such a breakfast as this at the fort."

"Dragged from his love!" cried Hilton, who did not seem to heed his companion's remarks.

"Well, that last's all sentiment, old man," drawled Chumbley. "For my part I think it will do you good. I say--happy thought, Hilton--Helen Perowne's at the bottom of this, and wanting to get rid of you, has had you carried away. Me too, for fear I should make the running in your absence."

"Do you wish to quarrel, Chumbley?" cried Hilton.

"Not I. You couldn't quarrel with me. But joking apart, old man, I saw enough yesterday to know that you had got to the end of your tether, and that--"

"And that what?" cried Hilton, fiercely; for Chumbley had halted in his speech.

"That she had pitched you over, same as she had a score of others before you."

"Silence! It is a falsehood--a calumny--a d.a.m.ned lie! How dare you say that?"

"Oh, easy enough!" said Chumbley, without moving a muscle. "It's just waggling one's tongue a bit. Bully away, old man, I don't mind; and you'll feel better when you've rid yourself of all that spleen."

"As to Miss Perowne knowing of this--"