Two bells tinkles within the master’s cabin, and the quartermaster on the bridge repeats the announcement of nine o’clock with two strokes upon the bronze bell near his station at the wheel. It is sailing-time. The townspeople have turned out en masse to bid us farewell, and the open spaces on the new concrete wharf are ablaze with color. The chatter of a thousand voices comes to us as we stand upon the deck looking down on the scene. Every one seems happy. The great whistle on the ship’s funnel

It is four o’clock in the afternoon. The ship’s launch is wallowing toward the wharf, carrying with it ourselves and two of the ship’s officers. Moh—our Javanese boy, cook, majordomo, and general nuisance—is busily engaged in gathering our barang together, preparatory to getting it ashore. No one ever thinks of calling baggage anything but “barang” after a few months in Malay waters. We just must show our command of the vernacular and thereby escape classification as common tourists. As we near

To-day the assistant is resting. The steamer is gone. We shall go hunting adventure on our own. Four miles inland there is a kampong where live about fifty Kia Kias. As the day is warm we will put on the lightest clothing we have and go there. We cannot miss the way, for the only road of which the country boasts passes the place. It leads to a deceased missionary’s little plantation about three miles farther on. Each of the men has perforated the septum of his nose to permit inserting a pair of

The whitewashed buildings of the government headquarters reflect the sunlight with an intolerable glare as we swing up the path from the road. At the door of the assistant’s office we are greeted by an obsequious Ambonese in regulation white. His trousers are very short, though whether by design or because of repeated shrinkings, I am not prepared to say. On his head he wears a batik turban one corner of which seems to flirt with us in feminine coquettishness as he bows and scrapes. The “Residen

High tide at nine to-day! On the Nautilus the crew are shortening up on the anchor chain, for the rusty old hook has been buried in the river mud for two months. We sail at full tide, which enables us to skirt the shore of the western flats and save much time in getting out to sea. Moh has superintended the moving of all our effects to the little schooner while we have been in the trading-company’s store making some eleventh-hour purchases of tobacco and tin mirrors for the natives and cigars fo

The days have flown almost uncounted. Our native passengers left us several days ago, after we had passed a large river which it was impossible for them to cross on account of its width and depth. They had refused to go home on foot, for this would have necessitated their traversing unfriendly territory they knew to be dangerous in the extreme. Landing on the other side of the river, they were among tribes more or less friendly to their own and stood an excellent chance of reaching home in safet

Shall we ever forget that sunrise and how the glow in the east chased the pregnant shadows? Never! We are not afraid, that is, afraid in the usual sense of the term. If the natives had attacked us we should have joyously risen to the occasion and put Mr. Colt to the fore to argue for us. It was the suspense we minded. Those things which we can see and gage with our full consciousness never bother us. It is the unseen and mysterious that we dread. When one does not know what to expect, nor from w

Our first visit has turned out so well and the natives seem so friendly that there seems to be no reason why we should not move camp so as to be near them and thus save a long hike through the jungle every time we wish to see them. A walk through the jungle is the occasion of a fight with mosquitos, particularly at this time of year, February, which is the beginning of the rainy season. With the assistance of several of the younger men we transfer our belongings from the beach to the kampong and

With the passing of the days our hosts forget the gloom caused by the death of the old man and resume their usual laughing, care-free demeanor, much to our relief. They spend hours in the shade of our tent, during which time we pick up many of their words,—enough, in fact, to enable us to converse in a limited way with them. Curiously intermingled with the pure words of their somewhat limited vocabulary are many of either pure Malay or Malayan derivation, and the presence of these, we find, help

In our land the advent of a new member of the household is usually the occasion of much todo. There are many whispered conferences and grave speculations as to the advisability of this or that, and in many cases Mother is summoned as mistress of ceremonies. Wife’s sister also may attend and shuffle you unceremoniously out of the way of the trained nurse that bustles by, redolent of some carbolic derivative, and utterly unconscious of your existence. You who thought that you were in some remote w

The presentation of skulls is but the prelude to a great entertainment. It has been planned for our especial benefit. As a sort of opening chorus and introductory number, we are entertained with the Kia Kia song of welcome as the circle of witnesses to the skull-presentation ceremony breaks up. The medicine man—who, by the way, is supposed to hold communion with the spirits that every native believes inhabit the jungle—leads in the opening number, which is an ensemble of all the adult males of t

It seems that while the wady party was in progress something occurred that aroused the ire of one or two of the older women of the kampong. The visitors who came to partake of the cup that cheers partook of something else, not on the program, and this occasioned a great deal of discussion, conducted mainly by the wife of the injured party. A very fine stone club turned up missing, so to speak, and the family wealth was thus greatly depleted. While the loss is of moment, the men are inclined to p

The men of the kampong are planning a kangaroo hunt in the lowlands not far distant from the kampong. They say the hunt will take two days and that if we wish to go with them it will be necessary to make provision ourselves for our food and shelter. They, of course, sleep in rude palm-leaf lean-tos and subsist on their staple sago cake. The prospect of witnessing a kangaroo drive fills us with enthusiasm, and with all speed we prepare to accompany them. Early the next morning we set out with a l

Shortly after the kangaroo hunt there come to the kampong two Chinese, with a party of Moresby boys, who are making their way to the coast and Merauke, where they can dispose of the skins of the birds of paradise they have taken. The Chinese are of the typical trader class and appear prosperous, for their watch-chains are very heavy and of pure gold,—not the red gold we know, but the twenty-two-karat metal of the Orient. Their advent causes a stir in the kampong, for the moment the dogs give war

Kampong days melt into one another with such indolent smoothness that the weeks slide into months without tally. Were it not for the calendar that hangs on the wall of the tent our count of them would be entirely lost. The simple routine life of the natives of the kampong, except for the diversions we have seen, becomes monotonous and boredom grips us. It is a week since our yellow brethren left us with much ado and genial wishes for our welfare. They are well on their way by this time. Some of