The change in their plans was explained to Mr. Parsell. He gave it, as he listened, an apprehending and friendly nod or two. He raised no objection to Colet leaving the country by the route he himself had chosen.
“You might be of some assistance to me. Do you know anything of ethnology, Mr. Colet?”
Their farewells were perfunctory. Their men had already separated, and were on their divergent trails. When Colet turned, as he was about to enter the woods, Norrie was standing, looking back at him. They lifted their rifles, and Norrie vanished.
XXXV
To face about and march away from Norrie made the land different. The very sunlight depends for its brightness on the way we are able to see it. Norrie was an old sentimentalist, easy and warm, armoured bright in guile, like most of the cynics and epicures, and was as sure to have the hump tonight as himself. What is the good of a campfire anywhere without a pal the other side of it? Life without comradeship would be ashes. The fire would be out. Here; better push on and take the head of the line. Set the pace. Let these fellows see who is running the show.
Old Parsell’s puttees were comic. Might be an urchin’s stockings; no better than dirty bandages slipping down, and the beastly leeches were active.
“Hold on, Mr. Parsell; let us fix these. They’ll never last as they are. You should start them, winding the strip this way … see? Look at that. A bunch of worms already browsing on you. There it is—that comes of loose and unsoaped puttees. Always give ’em a strong dose of carbolic soap once they are fixed. The lather upsets the little devils.”
A promising start, teaching the dear old buffer how to dress for a walk. Parsell seemed to imagine he was strolling through a Devon lane, and that the local oddities meant nothing to an important man. No concern of his. He was humming to himself now—a confident old card—considering a problem of philology, no doubt, while cheerfully humming a tune, and perhaps a rhinoceros was waiting round that bend. Where did Norrie say was the place to hit an elephant? Three inches in front of the earhole, if you could see it. But if not?
Colet, leading them, found the trail descended to an open space, a smooth and sunny lake of grass round which the forest towered rugged as basaltic cliffs. But the grass was taller than himself. You had to plunge into this lake, and walk along the bottom of it. A likely corner for sladang, the instantaneous bull which does not wait for trouble but makes it when you are not looking; and it was impossible to see a yard ahead. Queer. Now he knew how much before he had left to Norrie; he had never bothered about such characteristics of the Malay jungle while Norrie was ahead, though he knew they were there. No worse now than they used to be, but he happened to be leading. There is something in leadership, then, which the people behind never guess till the man who should be in front is not.
Through that bit. Nothing there. Just as well not to worry when you can’t see anything. Wait till you do. It might be good fun to manoeuvre this party through to the sea; an attractive substitute for the loss of the tin. The Malays were fine fellows. A likely lot. Stout little men. That one close behind, the guide, had a serviceable face for the figurehead of a pirate ship; coming along with its eyes at your heels it kept you brisk. Mat was decidedly a good man. His eyes saw things. He would last. And another pleasing sign. Mat had consulted him, with marked respect—which was a trifle disturbing, seeing where they were—about the point to be made that day; Mat had not gone to the pawang. Perhaps he guessed that even a pawang may be a bit weak about such a detail as the best direction to take in a forest.
Parsell, when half the day was done, showed no sign of distress. The ethnologist had no body worth mentioning, but his cheerfulness hinted that spirit could well support a purpose as well as sinew. With that big helmet, his meagreness was absurdly overcapped; it was a mushroom on a short thin stalk. He was in a mood of light confidence, when they paused for food in the early afternoon.
“I have decided, Mr. Colet, that we shall camp here for the day. This is an excellent place. I want some time to arrange my notes. The men had better make a shelter.”
“Not here, Mr. Parsell. It can’t be done. It’s a rotten hole for a camp. We shall go on till five o’clock.”
“But, my dear sir, I must have leisure for my work. It is in arrears.”
“Not the place for a camp, sir. You wouldn’t do any work here. The sandflies wouldn’t let you. On we must go.”
Colet lumbered up, fixed his gear, slung his gun. Mat already was getting under way.
“We mustn’t waste time, Mr. Parsell. Some way to go yet.”
The ethnologist showed astonishment. His mind, evidently, had been settled. But he saw the men assembling their burdens and that the guide had gone.
“I don’t understand this, Mr. Colet. I thought the men. …”
“But I do. It’s not a bit of good. We can’t risk the lives of these men for our fun, you know. Got to push on. I think we should get this bit behind us. It’s a bad patch. Feeling tired?”
“Not in the least. I
