ngly as he strode
over, sat on the chest, and, leaning his elbows on his knees, took his
head between his hands and stared at the doorway thoughtfully.

Babalatchi moved about in the shadows, whispering to an indistinct form
or two that flitted about at the far end of the hut. Without stirring
Lingard glanced sideways, and caught sight of muffled-up human shapes
that hovered for a moment near the edge of light and retreated suddenly
back into the darkness. Babalatchi approached, and sat at Lingard's feet
on a rolled-up bundle of mats.

"Will you eat rice and drink sagueir?" he said. "I have waked up my
household."

"My friend," said Lingard, without looking at him, "when I come to
see Lakamba, or any of Lakamba's servants, I am never hungry and never
thirsty. Tau! Savee! Never! Do you think I am devoid of reason? That
there is nothing there?"

He sat up, and, fixing abruptly his eyes on Babalatchi, tapped his own
forehead significantly.

"Tse! Tse! Tse! How can you talk like that, Tuan!" exclaimed Babalatchi,
in a horrified tone.

"I talk as I think. I have lived many years," said Lingard, stretching
his arm negligently to take up the gun, which he began to examine
knowingly, cocking it, and easing down the hammer several times. "This
is good. Mataram make. Old, too," he went on.

"Hai!" broke in Babalatchi, eagerly. "I got it when I was young. He
was an Aru trader, a man with a big stomach and a loud voice, and
brave--very brave. When we came up with his prau in the grey morning, he
stood aft shouting to his men and fired this gun at us once. Only once!"
. . . He paused, laughed softly, and went on in a low, dreamy voice. "In
the grey morning we came up: forty silent men in a swift Sulu prau; and
when the sun was so high"--here he held up his hands about three feet
apart--"when the sun was only so high, Tuan, our work was done--and
there was a feast ready for the fishes of the sea."

"Aye! aye!" muttered Lingard, nodding his head slowly. "I see. You
should not let it get rusty like this," he added.

He let the gun fall between his knees, and moving back on his seat,
leaned his head against the wall of the hut, crossing his arms on his
breast.

"A good gun," went on Babalatchi. "Carry far and true. Better than
this--there."

With the tips of his fingers he touched gently the butt of a revolver
peeping out of the right pocket of Lingard's white jacket.

"Take your hand off that," said Lingard sharply, but