Читать книгу Trapped by Malays: A Tale of Bayonet and Kris - George Manville Fenn - Страница 6

“Oh, bother!” The utterer of these two impatient words threw down a sheet of notepaper from which he had been reading, carefully smoothed out the folds to make it flat, and then, balancing it upon one finger as he sat back in a cane chair with his heels upon the table, gave the paper a flip with his nail and sent it skimming out of the window of his military quarters 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?”

“Yes, sir. Sounds bad, don’t it?”

“Disgraceful!”

“Yes, Mr. Maine, sir; but ain’t it disgraceful for a sergeant to be allowed to hit a poor fellow a whack with that cane of his just because he’s a bit out in his drill?”

“Drop it, Pete.”

“And ’im obliged to stand up stiff, and dursen’t say a word?”

“Didn’t you hear me say, ‘Drop it’?”

“Yes, sir—and one’s blood b’iling all the while!”

“Look here; you have been having it again, then, Pete?”

“Again, sir! Why, I am always a-having of it.”

“What was it, now?”

“I telled you, sir: nothing.”

“That was a lie, Pete. Now, wasn’t it?”

“Not a lie, sir. Only a little cracker.”

“Well, out with it.”

“Not enough pipeclay, sir.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Jigger the pipeclay! It’s a regular cuss. Ah, it’s you laughing now, sir. Can I do anything else for you, sir?”

“N–n–no.”

“ ’Cause the cook will be howling after me directly, and I don’t want to be out with him.”

“No, I suppose not; but what about that bait for fishing?”

“Oh, that’s all right, sir. I will be ready. But don’t you think, sir, if we was to go higher up the river we could find a better place? It don’t seem much good only ketching them there little hikong-sammylangs.”

“Eikon Sambilang, Pete. Don’t you know what that means?”

“That’s what the niggers call them, sir. I suppose it’s because it’s their name.”

“Five-barbelled fish, Pete, eh?”

“Just like them, sir. Then why don’t they call them barbel, sir, like we do? I have seen lots of them ketched up Teddington way by the gentlemen in punts—whackers, too—not poor little tiddlers like these ’ere. We ought to go right up the river in a sampan, with plenty of bait, and try in a bit of sharp stream close to one of them deep holes.”

“No good, Pete. We shouldn’t do any good. Those beauties of crocodiles clear out the holes.”

“What! whacking the water, sir, with their tails? I’ve heerd them lots of times. Rum place this ’ere, sir, ain’t it?”

“Yes, Pete; rather a change from England. But it is very beautiful, and I like it.”

“Well, yes, sir; that’s right enough. So do I like it. I often think it would be just lovely if old Ripsy would get down with the fever. My word! what would he be like when Dr. Morley had done with him, and he began to crawl about and use his cane to help him hobble, instead of being so jolly handy with it in his fashion?”

“Peter Pegg, that’s a nasty, revengeful way of talking.”

“Is it, sir?” said the young private, giving himself a twist, as if in recollection of a tap with the cane.

“Yes. You don’t mean to tell me that you wish Sergeant Ripsy would catch this nasty jungle fever?”

“No, sir, I don’t want to tell you; but I do.”

“I don’t believe you, Pete. The Sergeant’s a fine soldier and a brave man, and I honestly believe that he thinks he is doing his duty.”

“Oh, he’s brave enough, I dare say. So are you, sir.”

“Bosh!”

“So am I, sir.”

“Double bosh! Turkish for nothing, Pete.”

“Is it, sir? I don’t care. I know when the row comes off with that there Rajah Solomon—and there’s a pretty bit of cheek, sir: him, a reg’lar heathen, going and getting himself called by a Christian name! I should like to give him Solomon—you’ll fight with the best of them, sir. I often think about it. You’ll fight with the best of them, sir. And ’tain’t brag, Mr. Archie Maine, sir—you let me see one of them beggars coming at you with his pisoned kris or his chuck-spear, do you mean to tell me I wouldn’t let him have the bayonet? And bad soldier or no, I can do the bayonet practice with the best of them. Old Tipsy did own to that.”

“Look here, Pete; you are what the Yankees call blowing now. Let’s wait till the time comes, and then we shall see what we shall see. And look here; don’t you let me hear you call Sergeant Ripsy Tipsy again. One of these days, mark my words, he will find out that you have nicknamed him with a T instead of an R, and he will never forgive you.”

“Tckkk!”

“What are you laughing at, sir?”

“Oh, don’t say sir, Mr. Archie! There’s no one near. Of course I don’t mind when anybody’s by, but I couldn’t help laughing. Old Patient Job found it out long ago.”

“He did?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet you wonder that he has got what you call his knife into you!”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s why, sir.”

“Well, I do.”

“No, sir; it’s his aggravating way of wanting to see a company of human men going across the parade like a great big caterpillar or a big bit of a machine raking up the sand.”

“Never mind. Old Ripsy is a fine soldier, and I advise you not to let him hear you.”

“Pst!”

“What is it?”

“Mr. Maine, sir,” whispered the lad; and the subaltern’s heels dropped at once from the table upon which they had been resting, for plainly heard through the window, in a loud, forced cough, full of importance, came the utterance, “Errrrum! Errum!” and Private Peter Pegg’s lower jaw dropped, and his eyes, as he fixed them upon the subaltern’s face, opened in so ghastly a stare of dread that, in spite of his annoyance, Ensign Maine’s hands were clapped to his mouth to check a guffaw. But as the regular stamp more than stride of a heavy man reached his ears, the young officer’s countenance assumed a look of annoyance, and he whispered in a boyish, nervous way:

“Slip off, Pete; and don’t let him see you leaving my room.”

“I can’t, sir,” whispered the lad, with a look full of agony.

“What!”

“He telled me if ever he catched me loafing about your quarters he’d—”

“Don’t talk. Cut!”

“I can’t, sir.”

“You can.”

“But—”

“Don’t talk. Off at once.”

“But I tell you, sir—”

“I don’t want to be told. He mustn’t see you going away from here.”

“But he’s stopped, sir. Can’t you hear?”

“No—yes. Why has he stopped?”

“Because he can see my two blessed buckets standing there.”

“Oh, Peter Pegg! Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!” And as the young subaltern gave utterance to these homely sounds, he was recalling certain sarcastic remarks of the stern master of drill respecting officers and gentlemen demeaning themselves by associating with the men.