Part 39 (1/2)
”It is not exactly _frappe_,” he said, handing her the insipid beverage, ”but, under other conditions, it is a wine almost worthy to toast you in.”
She fancied she had never before noticed what a charming smile he had.
”'Toast' is a peculiarly suitable word,” she cried. ”I am simply frizzling. In these warm clothes----”
She stopped. For the first time since that prehistoric period when she was ”Miss Deane” and he ”Mr. Jenks” she remembered the manner of her garments.
”It is not the warm clothing you feel so much as the want of air,”
explained the sailor readily. ”This tarpaulin has made the place very stuffy, but we must put up with it until sundown. By the way, what is that?”
A light tap on the tarred canvas directly over his head had caught his ear. Iris, glad of the diversion, told him she had heard the noise three or four times, but fancied it was caused by the occasional rustling of the sheet on the uprights.
Jenks had not allowed his attention to wander altogether from external events. Since the Dyaks' last escapade there was no sign of them in the valley or on either beach. Not for trivial cause would they come again within range of the Lee-Metfords.
They waited and listened silently. Another tap sounded on the tarpaulin in a different place, and they both concurred in the belief that something had darted in curved flight over the ledge and fallen on top of their protecting s.h.i.+eld.
”Let us see what the game is,” exclaimed the sailor. He crept to the back of the ledge and drew himself up until he could reach over the sheet. He returned, carrying in his hand a couple of tiny arrows.
”There are no less than seven of these things sticking in the canvas,”
he said. ”They don't look very terrible. I suppose that is what my Indian friend meant by warning me against the trees on the right.”
He did not tell Iris all the Mahommedan said. There was no need to alarm her causelessly. Even whilst they examined the curious little missile another flew up from the valley and lodged on the roof of their shelter.
The shaft of the arrow, made of some extremely hard wood, was about ten inches in length. Affixed to it was a pointed fish-bone, sharp, but not barbed, and not fastened in a manner suggestive of much strength. The arrow was neither feathered nor grooved for a bowstring. Altogether it seemed to be a childish weapon to be used by men equipped with lead and steel.
Jenks could not understand the appearance of this toy. Evidently the Dyaks believed in its efficacy, or they would not keep on pertinaciously dropping an arrow on the ledge.
”How do they fire it?” asked Iris. ”Do they throw it?”
”I will soon tell you,” he replied, reaching for a rifle.
”Do not go out yet,” she entreated him. ”They cannot harm us. Perhaps we may learn more by keeping quiet. They will not continue shooting these things all day.”
Again a tiny arrow traveled towards them in a graceful parabola. This one fell short. Missing the tarpaulin, it almost dropped on the girl's outstretched hand. She picked it up. The fish-bone point had snapped by contact with the floor of the ledge.
She sought for and found the small tip.
”See,” she said. ”It seems to have been dipped in something. It is quite discolored.”
Jenks frowned peculiarly. A startling explanation had suggested itself to him. Fragments of forgotten lore were taking cohesion in his mind.
”Put it down. Quick!” he cried.
Iris obeyed him, with wonder in her eyes. He spilled a teasponful of champagne into a small hollow of the rock and steeped one of the fish-bones in the liquid. Within a few seconds the champagne a.s.sumed a greenish tinge and the bone became white. Then he knew.
”Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, ”these are poisoned arrows shot through a blowpipe. I have never before seen one, but I have often read about them. The bamboos the Dyaks carried were sumpitans. These fish-bones have been steeped in the juice of the upas tree. Iris, my dear girl, if one of them had so much as scratched your finger nothing on earth could save you.”
She paled and drew back in sudden horror. This tiny thing had taken the semblance of a snake. A vicious cobra cast at her feet would be less alarming, for the reptile could be killed, whilst his venomous fangs would only be used in self-defence.
Another tap sounded on their thrice-welcome covering. Evidently the Dyaks would persist in their efforts to get one of those poisoned darts home.