"Arabs, no doubt," muttered Almayer to himself, peering into the solid
blackness. "What are they up to now? Some of Abdulla's business; curse
him!"
The boat was very close now.
"Oh, ya! Man!" hailed Almayer.
The sound of voices ceased, but the paddles worked as furiously as
before. Then the bush in front of Almayer shook, and the sharp sound of
the paddles falling into the canoe rang in the quiet night. They were
holding on to the bush now; but Almayer could hardly make out an
indistinct dark shape of a man's head and shoulders above the bank.
"You Abdulla?" said Almayer, doubtfully.
A grave voice answered--
"Tuan Almayer is speaking to a friend. There is no Arab here."
Almayer's heart gave a great leap.
"Dain!" he exclaimed. "At last! at last! I have been waiting for you
every day and every night. I had nearly given you up."
"Nothing could have stopped me from coming back here," said the other,
almost violently. "Not even death," he whispered to himself.
"This is a friend's talk, and is very good," said Almayer, heartily. "But
you are too far here. Drop down to the jetty and let your men cook their
rice in my campong while we talk in the house."
There was no answer to that invitation.
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