dinner, and sat with rather a disgusted look upon his countenance, gazing between the leaves at the surface of the river, watching for the muddy-looking prominences above the eyes of the crocodiles; and thinking how he should like to spend the next few days gliding about in a boat, sending bullets into the brains of the treacherous-looking brutes as they slowly swam about in the tidal stream.

The sound of heavy breathing made him turn his head at last to see that the Malays were all fast asleep, and that his uncle had followed their example; and as Ned looked, he could see the great drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead.

Perhaps it was the effect of seeing others asleep—perhaps the heat—at any rate, the result was that a drowsy sensation stole over the boy; and the dark leaves which touched the palm thatching of the roof, the metallic dazzling glare from the surface of the river, and the rippling sound of the water all passed away, as Ned dropped into a dreamless sleep, which lasted till he was touched by his uncle.

“Wake up, Ned. Going on.”

“Have I been asleep?”

“Look for yourself.”

The Malays were forcing the boat out into the stream once more, which, instead of glancing like molten silver with a glare which was painful to the eyes, now seemed to be of a deep glowing orange, the reflection of the wondrous sky rapidly changing in its refulgent hues from gold to orange, to a deep-red and purple, as the sun sank rapidly behind the great dark belt of trees on their left.

“The tide is just upon the turn again. Can’t you feel that it is much cooler?”

“No, not yet,” replied Ned. “I turned hot when we first got to Singapore, and I’ve never been cool since.”

“Not when you plunged into the river?”

Ned gave him a sharp look.

“I don’t remember anything about that,” he replied; “but I say, uncle, you might let me have a shot at one of the crocs now.”

Murray laughed, but made no reply, and they sat in silence watching the wonderful sunset, as the men, well refreshed, sent the boat along at a pretty good rate, the tide soon afterwards lending its help. This was kept on till long after dark, and the crew did not cease rowing till they came abreast of another tiny village. Here they fastened the boat to a post in company with a couple more, after exchanging a few words with some dusky-looking figures on the strip of shore, beyond which a group of huts could be just made out, backed by trees, which looked of an intense black, while above them was the purple sky spangled with stars which seemed double the size of those at home.

This time Ned was quite ready for his share of the evening meal, which was eaten in silence as the travellers sat watching a patch of bushes which grew where the mangroves ceased.

“Why, it’s just like a little display of fireworks,” Ned whispered. “As if the people there were letting them off because we had come.”

“Yes; it is very beautiful. Look! they seem to flash out like the sparks in a wood fire, when the wind suddenly blows over it, and then go out again.”

“Yes,” said Ned thoughtfully; “our glow-worms that we used to find and bring back to put in the garden were nothing to them. Look at that!”

He pointed to where a bright streak of light glided through the darkness for a few yards, and then stopped suddenly, when all around it there was a fresh flashing out of the lights.

“Why, uncle!” cried Ned, “if we caught a lot of those and hung them up in a glass globe, we shouldn’t want this lamp.”

“I don’t know how the experiment would answer, Ned,” was the reply. “But it would be awkward to go plashing about in the mud and water to catch the fireflies, and we have no glass globe, while we have a lamp.”

The coruscations of the fireflies seemed to fascinate Ned so much that he became quite silent at last, while the Malays sat huddled together chewing their betel, and talking in a low subdued tone. Then Murray struck a match to light his pipe, and the flash showed Ned’s intent face.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

“I was trying to puzzle it out, uncle.”

“What?”

“Oh, there are three things,” said Ned, as the half-burned match described a curve and fell into the water to be extinguished with a hiss, looking as it flew something like one of the fireflies ashore, but of a ruddier tint.

“Well, philosopher,” said Murray, leaning over against the side of the boat, “let’s have some of your thoughts.”

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“No. Honour bright.”

“Well, uncle, first of all, I was wondering why those lights in the fireflies don’t burn them.”

“Easily answered, Ned; because they are not hot.”

“But they seem to be burning like the flame in a lamp, only of course very small.”

“Seem, Ned, but they are not burning. It’s light without heat, the same as you see on decaying fish; and as we shall find in some of the great mushrooms in the jungle. It is one of the puzzles scientific men have not quite settled yet. We have it, you see, in our own glow-worms. I have often seen it in a kind of centipede at home, which to me seems to be covered with a kind of luminous oil, some of which it leaves behind it on a gravel path or the trunk of a tree.”

“Yes; I’ve seen that,” said Ned thoughtfully.

“Then, again, you have it on the sea-shore, where in calm, hot weather the luminosity looks like pale golden-green oil, so thick that you can skim it from a harbour.”

“But what can it all be for?”

“Ah, there you pose me, Ned. What is everything for? What are we for?”

“To go up the river, and make all sorts of discoveries.”

“A good answer. Then let’s roll ourselves in our blankets and go to sleep. Hamet says that we shall start again before it is light, and they are going to sleep now.”

“All right. Shall I make the beds?”

Murray laughed, for the bed-making consisted in taking two blankets out of a box, and then they rolled themselves up, the lamp was turned down, and, save for a few moments’ rustling sound caused by Ned fidgeting into a fresh place, all was silent, the faint whisper of the water gliding by the side of the boat hardly warranting the term sound.

“Asleep, Ned?” came after a pause.

“No, uncle.”

“Thinking?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“What about?”

“I was thinking how horrid it would be if those people came stealing on board with their krises, and killed us all.”

“Then don’t think any more such absurd rubbish, and go to sleep.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“The people out there have just as much cause to fear that we should turn pirates, and go and attack them.”

There was another pause, and then a fresh repetition of the questioning, and this time Ned had been thinking how easy it would be for Hamet and his companions to stab and drop them overboard.

“Get out, you horrible young imaginer of evil. If they did that they would not be paid for their journey.”

“No, uncle, but they’d get the guns and all our things.”

“Ned, I’m beginning to think I ought to have left you at home,” said Mr Murray quietly.

“Oh, I say uncle, I couldn’t help tumbling overboard.”

“No, sir, but you can help putting all kinds of bloodthirsty ideas in my head. Now go to sleep.”

“Well, uncle, if you’ll promise not to believe you ought to have left me at home, I will not think anything like that again.”

“Very well, sir. It’s a bargain.”

There was a long silence, and then, ping—ing—ing—ing, came a sharp, piercing trumpeting.

“Here he is, Ned.”

“Who, uncle?”

“The fellow who wants to have our blood.”

“Shall I get the guns, uncle?” whispered Ned, in awe-stricken tones.

“Bah! Nonsense! Whoever