He was not in a hurry; his
master, Lakamba, was surely reposing at this time of the day. He would
have ample time to cross over and greet him on his waking with important
news. Will he be displeased? Will he strike his ebony wood staff
angrily on the floor, frightening him by the incoherent violence of his
exclamations; or will he squat down with a good-humoured smile, and,
rubbing his hands gently over his stomach with a familiar gesture,
expectorate copiously into the brass siri-vessel, giving vent to a low,
approbative murmur? Such were Babalatchi's thoughts as he skilfully
handled his paddle, crossing the river on his way to the Rajah's campong,
whose stockades showed from behind the dense foliage of the bank just
opposite to Almayer's bungalow.
Indeed, he had a report to make. Something certain at last to confirm
the daily tale of suspicions, the daily hints of familiarity, of stolen
glances he had seen, of short and burning words he had overheard
exchanged between Dain Maroola and Almayer's daughter.
Lakamba had, till then, listened to it all, calmly and with evident
distrust; now he was going to be convinced, for Babalatchi had the proof;
had it this very morning, when fishing at break of day in the creek over
which stood Bulangi's house.
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