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Shadowy forms were leaping, one after another, from the branches above on to the deck. I slowly cocked my revolver, doubting my senses, for each time one of the invaders reached the deck he sprang into the air with the long, thrilling cry of pain that had awakened me, and with another bound was on the bulwarks and over the side of the launch, clinging to the railing.

With each cry, Baboo’s mocking voice came out, shrill and exultant, from behind a pile of life-preservers. “O Allah, judge the dogs. They would kris the great Tuan as he slept–the pariahs!–but they forgot so mean a thing as Baboo!”

The smell of warm blood filled the air, and a low snarl among the rubber-vines revealed the presence of a tiger.

I felt Aboo Din’s hand tremble on my shoulder.

The five Sikhs were drawn up in battle array before the cabin door, waiting for the word of command. I glanced at them and hesitated.

“Tid ‘apa, Tuan” (never mind), Aboo Din whispered with a proud ring in his voice.

“Baboo blow Orang Kayah’s men away with the breath of his mouth.”

As he spoke the branches above the bow were thrust aside and a dark form hung for an instant as though in doubt, then shot straight down upon the corrugated surface of the deck.

As before, a shriek of agony heralded the descent, followed by Baboo’s laugh, then the dim shape sprang wildly upon the bulwark, lost its hold, and went over with a great splash among the labyrinth of snakelike mangrove roots.

There was the rushing of many heavy forms through the red mud, a snapping of great jaws, and there was no mistaking the almost mortal cry that arose from out the darkness. I had often heard it when paddling softly up one of the wild Malayan rivers.

It was the death cry of a wah-wah monkey facing the cruel jaws of a crocodile.

I plunged my fingers into my ears to smother the sound. I understood it all now. Baboo’s pirates, the dreaded Orang Kayah’s rebels, were the troop of monkeys we had heard the night before in the tambusa trees.

“Baboo,” I shouted, “come here! What does this all mean?”

The Tiger-Child glided from behind the protecting pile, and came close up to my legs.

“Tuan,” he whimpered, “Baboo see many faces behind trees. Baboo ‘fraid for Tuan,–Tuan great and good,–save Baboo from tiger,–Baboo break up all glass bottles–old bottles–Tuan no want old bottle–Baboo and Aboo Din, the father, put them on deck so when Orang Kayah’s men come out of jungle and drop from trees on deck they cut their feet on glass. Baboo is through talking,–Tuan no whip Baboo!”

There was the pathetic little quaver in his voice that I knew so well.

“But they were monkeys, Baboo, not pirates.”

Baboo shrugged his brown shoulders and kept his eyes on my feet.

“Allah is good!” he muttered.

Allah was good; they might have been pirates.

The snarl of the tiger was growing more insistent and near. I gave the order, and the boat backed out into mid-stream.

As the sun was reducing the gloom of the sylvan tunnel to a translucent twilight, we floated down the swift current toward the ocean.

I had given up all hope of finding the shipwrecked men, and decided to ask the government to send a gunboat to demand their release.

As the bow of the launch passed the wreck of the Bunker Hill and responded to the long even swell of the Pacific, Baboo beckoned sheepishly to Aboo Din, and together they swept all trace of his adventure into the green waters.

Among the souvenirs of my sojourn in Golden Chersonese is a bit of amber-colored glass bearing the world-renowned name of a London brewer. There is a dark stain on one side of it that came from the hairy foot of one of Baboo’s “pirates.”