IN THE TEMPLE
The hatch above them opened. A bestial Chinese face, grinning cruelly,
appeared in it.
"You b'g-um fellow gettee outtee here plenty damn' quick!" the Chinaman
barked. He thrust a piece of bamboo into the hole and prodded the
helpless captives below with a savage energy. The third thrust of the
cane found Peter Gross's ribs. With a hoarse cry of anger Paddy sprang
to his feet and shot his fist into the Chinaman's face before the
resident could cry a warning.
The blow caught the pirate between the eyes and hurled him back on the
deck. He gazed at Paddy a dazed moment and then sprang to his feet.
Lifting the cane in both his hands above his head, he uttered a shriek
of fury and would have driven the weapon through Rouse's body had not a
giant Bugi, standing near by, jumped forward and caught his arm.
Wrestling with the maddened Chinaman, the Bugi shouted some words wholly
unintelligible to Paddy in the pirate's ear. Peter Gross scrambled to
his feet.
"Jump on deck, my lad," he shouted. "Quick, let them see you. It may
save us."
Paddy obeyed. The morning sun, about four hours high, played through his
rumpled hair, the auburn gleaming like flame. Malays, Dyaks, and Bugis,
attracted by the noise of the struggle, crowded round and pointed at
him, muttering superstitiously.
"Act like a madman," Peter Gross whispered hoarsely to his aide.
Paddy broke into a shriek of foolish laughter. He shook as though
overcome with mirth, and folded his arms over his stomach as he rocked
back and forth. Suddenly straightening, he yelled a shrill "Whoopee!"
The next moment he executed a handspring into the midst of the natives,
almost upsetting one of them. The circle widened. A Chinese mate tried
to interfere, but the indignant islanders thrust him violently aside. He
shouted to the _juragan_, who ran forward, waving a pistol.
Every one of the crew was similarly armed, and every one wore a kris.
They formed in a crescent between their officer and the captives. In a
twinkling Peter Gross and Rouse found themselves encircled by a wall of
steel.
The _juragan's_ automatic dropped to a dead level with the eyes of the
Bugi who had saved Paddy. He bellowed an angry command, but the Bugi
closed his eyes and lowered his head resignedly, nodding in negation.
The other islanders stood firm. The Chinese of the crew ranged
themselves behind their captain and a bloody fight seemed imminent.
A Dyak left the ranks and began talking volubly to the _juragan_,
gesticulating wildly and pointing at Paddy Rouse and then at the sun. A
crooning murmur of assent arose from the native portion of the crew. The
_juragan_ retorted sharply. The Dyak broke into another volley of
protestations. Paddy looked on with a glaringly stupid smile. The
_juragan_ watched him suspiciously while the Dyak talked, but gradually
his scowl faded. At last he gave a peremptory command and stalked away.
The crew returned to their duties.
"We're to be allowed to stay on deck as long as we behave ourselves
until we near shore, or unless some trader passes us," Peter Gross said
in a low voice to Rouse. Paddy blinked to show that he understood, and
burst into shouts of foolish laughter, hopping around on all fours. The
natives respectfully made room for him. He kept up these antics at
intervals during the day, while Peter Gross, remaining in the shade of
the cabin, watched the pirates. After prying into every part of the
vessel with a childish curiosity that none of the crew sought to
restrain, Paddy returned to his chief and reported in a low whisper:
"The old bird isn't aboard, governor."
"I rather suspected he wasn't," Peter Gross answered. "He must have been
put ashore at the stop you spoke of."
It was late that day when the proa, after running coastwise all day,
turned a quarter circle into one of the numerous bays indenting the
coast. Peter Gross recognized the familiar headlands crowning Bulungan
Bay. Paddy also recognized them, for he cried:
"They're bringing us back home."
At that moment the tall Bugi who had been their sponsor approached them
and made signs to indicate that they must return to the box between
decks from which he had rescued them. He tried to show by signs and
gestures his profound regret at the necessity of locking them up again,
his anxiety to convince the "son of the Gunong Agong" was almost
ludicrous. Realizing the futility of objecting, Peter Gross and Paddy
permitted themselves to be locked in the place once more.
It was quite dark and the stars were shining brightly when the hatch was
lifted again. As they rose from their cramped positions and tried to
make out the circle of faces about them, unceremonious hands yanked them
to the deck, thrust foul-smelling cloths into their mouths, blindfolded
them, and trussed their hands and feet with stout cords. They were
lowered into a boat, and after a brief row were tossed on the beach like
so many sacks of wool, placed in boxlike receptacles, and hurried
inland. Two hours' steady jogging followed, in which they were thrown
about until every inch of skin on their bodies was raw with bruises.
They were then taken out of the boxes and the cloths and cords were
removed.
Looking about, Peter Gross and Paddy found themselves in the enclosed
court of what was evidently the ruins of an ancient Hindoo temple. The
massive columns, silvery in the bright moonlight, were covered with
inscriptions and outline drawings, crudely made in hieroglyphic art. In
the center of one wall was the chipped and weather-scarred pedestal of a
Buddha. The idol itself, headless, lay broken in two on the floor beside
it. Peter Gross's brow puckered--the very existence of such a temple two
hours' journey distant from Bulungan Bay had been unknown to him.
The _juragan_ and his Chinese left after giving sharp instructions to
their jailers, two Chinese, to guard them well. Peter Gross and Paddy
looked about in vain for a single friendly face or even the face of a
brown-skinned man--every member of the party was Chinese. The jailers
demonstrated their capacity by promptly thrusting their prisoners into a
dark room off the main court. It was built of stone, like the rest of
the temple.
"Not much chance for digging out of here," Rouse observed, after
examining the huge stones, literally mortised together, and the narrow
window aperture with its iron gratings. Peter Gross also made as careful
an examination of their prison as the darkness permitted.
"We may as well make ourselves comfortable," was his only observation at
the close of his investigation.
They chatted a short time, and at last Paddy, worn out by his exertions,
fell asleep. Peter Gross listened for a while to the lad's rhythmic
breathing, then tip-toed to the gratings and pulled himself up to them.
A cackle of derisive laughter arose outside. Realizing that the place
was carefully watched, he dropped back to the floor and began pacing the
chamber, his head lowered in thought. Presently he stopped beside Rouse
and gazed into the lad's upturned face, blissfully serene in the
innocent confidence of youth. Tears gathered in his eyes.
"I shouldn't have brought him here; I shouldn't have brought him here,"
he muttered brokenly.
The scraping of the ponderous bar that bolted the door interrupted his
meditations shortly after daybreak. The door creaked rustily on its
hinges, and an ugly, leering Chinese face peered inside. Satisfying
himself that his prisoners were not planning mischief, the Chinaman
thrust two bowls of soggy rice and a pannikin of water inside and
gestured to Peter Gross that he must eat. The indignant protest of the
door as it closed awoke Paddy, who sat bolt upright and blinked sleepily
until he saw the food.
"What? Time for breakfast?" he exclaimed with an amiable grin. "I must
have overslept."
He picked up a bowl of rice, stirred it critically with one of the
chopsticks their jailers had provided, and snuffed at the mixture. He
put it down with a wry face.
"Whew!" he whistled. "It's stale."
"You had better try to eat something," Peter Gross advised.
"I'm that hungry I could eat toasted sole leather," Paddy confessed.
"But this stuff smells to heaven."
Peter Gross took the other bowl and began eating, wielding the
chopsticks expertly.
"It isn't half bad--I've had worse rations on board your uncle's ship,"
he encouraged.
"Then my dear old avunculus ought to be hung," Paddy declared with
conviction. Hunger and his superior's example finally overcame his
scruples, however, and presently he was eating with gusto.
"Faith," he exclaimed, "I've got more appetite than I imagined."
Peter Gross did not answer. He was wondering whether the rice was
poisoned, and half hoped it was. It would be an easier death than by
torture, he thought. But he forebore mentioning this to Paddy.