hanging out of reach of the ants, nor yet his uncle; but close beside
him, lying on a mat, the figure of Frank, evidently fast asleep.

The two swarthy-looking faces were withdrawn slowly, and Ned turned,
seized Frank by the shoulder, and shook him violently.

"Don't, father!" was the result, as Frank spoke, without unclosing his
eyes. "Let me lie a bit longer. My head is so bad."

"Frank, old chap, wake up. Where are we? What does it all mean?"

The boy opened his eyes and sat up, stared round, rubbed himself, and
then gazed at his companion.

"I--what does it mean? I--what--I remember now. Some one jumped on me
and stuffed something into my mouth. I thought it was you then. It was
that Hamet. What does he mean? Here, we're not tied now; let's get out
of this. I say, where's my kris?"

He sprang up, and Ned followed his example, both making for the doorway,
but only to be confronted directly by four spearmen, who effectually
barred the way.

"Eh," said Frank, thoughtfully, "that's it, is it? 'Tisn't one of
Hamet's games. Here you," he continued, speaking now in Malay; "what
does all this mean? Why are we brought here?"

One of the men answered respectfully enough, and Frank turned from the
door to face his companion.

"Those are the rajah's chaps, and that fellow says we are to stay here.
I know: they thought we were going to cut off in that boat. Here you,
where's Hamet?"

The man addressed looked at him half smilingly, but made no reply.

"He won't speak," said Frank, impatiently. "It's no good to try. You
might as well ask questions of a cocoa-nut. I hope they haven't given
him the kris. Here, you: tell me this--Hamet--has he had the kris?"

This too in Malay, and the man addressed smiled now, but he would not
answer, and Frank gave it up.

"I don't think they've killed him, or they wouldn't look so civil.
Perhaps they've only shut him up like us. Well, I'm glad we went to see
where the boat was."

"Oh, I say, don't reproach me!" cried Ned. "I did all for the best.
Then we've been sleeping here all night. I never knew."

"Not you. They gave us some stuff, I know."

"But my uncle! He'll think I'm lost, or gone into the river, or
something. What will he say?"

"Oh, bother your uncle!" cried Frank, petulantly. "I'm thinking about
my poor old dad."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A FRIENDLY HAND.

The two boys stood staring thoughtfully at each other that bright, sunny
morning