Complete Works

disregard of his affections and suddenly “amok”?  The wise adviser would be the first victim, no doubt, and death would be his reward.  And underlying the horror of this situation there was the danger of those meddlesome fools, the white men.  A vision of comfortless exile in far-off Madura rose up before Babalatchi.  Wouldn’t that be worse than death itself?  And there was that half-white woman with threatening eyes.  How could he tell what an incomprehensible creature of that sort would or would not do?  She knew so much that she made the killing of Dain an impossibility.  That much was certain.  And yet the sharp, rough-edged kriss is a good and discreet friend, thought Babalatchi, as he examined his own lovingly, and put it back in the sheath, with a sigh of regret, before unfastening his canoe.  As he cast off the painter, pushed out into the stream, and took up his paddle, he realised vividly how unsatisfactory it was to have women mixed up in state affairs.  Young women, of course.  For Mrs. Almayer’s mature wisdom, and for the easy aptitude in intrigue that comes with years to the feminine mind, he felt the most sincere respect.
    He paddled leisurely, letting the canoe drift down as he crossed towards the point.  The sun was high yet, and nothing pressed.  His work would commence only with the coming of darkness.  Avoiding the Lingard jetty, he rounded the point, and paddled up the creek at the back of Almayer’s house.  There were many canoes lying there, their noses all drawn together, fastened all to the same stake.  Babalatchi pushed his little craft in amongst them and stepped on shore.  On the other side of the ditch something moved in the grass.
    “Who’s that hiding?” hailed Babalatchi.  “Come out and speak to me.”
    Nobody answered.  Babalatchi crossed over, passing from boat to boat, and poked his staff viciously in the suspicious place.  Taminah jumped up with a cry.
    “What are you doing here?” he asked, surprised.  “I have nearly stepped on your tray.  Am I a Dyak that you should hide at my sight?”
    “I was weary, and — I slept,” whispered Taminah, confusedly.
    “You slept!  You have not sold anything to-day, and you will be beaten when you return home,” said Babalatchi.
    Taminah stood before him abashed and silent.  Babalatchi looked her over carefully with great satisfaction.  Decidedly he would offer fifty dollars more to that thief Bulangi.  The girl pleased him.
    “Now you go home.  It is late,” he said sharply.  “Tell Bulangi that I shall be near his house before the night is half over, and that I want him to make all things ready for a long journey.  You understand?  A long journey to the southward.  Tell him that before sunset, and do not forget my words.”
    Taminah made a gesture of assent, and watched Babalatchi recross the ditch and disappear through the bushes bordering Almayer’s compound.  She moved a little further off the creek and sank in the grass again, lying down on her face, shivering in dry-eyed misery.
    Babalatchi walked straight towards the cooking-shed looking for Mrs. Almayer.  The courtyard was in a great uproar.  A strange Chinaman had possession of the kitchen fire and was noisily demanding another saucepan.  He hurled objurgations, in the Canton dialect and bad Malay, against the group of slave-girls standing a little way off, half frightened, half amused, at his violence.  From the camping fires round which the seamen of the frigate were sitting came words of encouragement, mingled with laughter and jeering.  In the midst of this noise and confusion Babalatchi met Ali, an empty dish in his hand.
    “Where are the white men?” asked Babalatchi.
    “They are eating in the front verandah,” answered Ali.  “Do not stop me, Tuan.  I am giving the white men their food and am busy.”
    “Where’s Mem Almayer?”
    “Inside in the passage.  She is listening to the talk.”
    Ali grinned and passed on; Babalatchi ascended the plankway to the rear verandah, and beckoning out Mrs. Almayer, engaged her in earnest conversation.  Through the long passage, closed at the further end by the red curtain, they could hear from time to time Almayer’s voice mingling in conversation with an abrupt loudness that made Mrs. Almayer look significantly at Babalatchi.
    “Listen,” she said.  “He has drunk much.”
    “He has,” whispered Babalatchi.  “He will sleep heavily to-night.”
    Mrs. Almayer