The rusty anchor - chains rattled noisily into the echoing hull, the leadsmen in the bows started their monotonous sailor chantey as they began sounding the depth of water, and then the Vampire, swinging out from the shelter of the shore, met the full force of the now furious current. It caught her in its embrace, and immediately whirled her two miles downstream as though she had been a child's model. Again and again the helmsman tried to bring her round head-on to the stream, and again and again her engines lacked the power to second his efforts. At last, after describing a dozen mad, half-drifting and half-steaming semicircles, her engines, now working under full pressure of steam, seemed to "bite on," and a few minutes later, after awaiting his opportunity, the helmsman finally managed to swing her bows up-stream into the current. Under the orushing strain of tons of angry water, the launch was now shaking and rattling from stem to stern, until every rivet in her ancient structure threatened to burst from its appointed place. Her great clumsy sternwheel was shrieking and groaning like some damned soul as it churned the boiling mill-race which swept roaring under the tortured paddles. At first the Vampire made no progress at all. Indeed, as the Policeman perceived by reference to the moonlit bank, they still continued to be forced downstream, though now only slowly. "Try and work her under the lee of that island," he advised the serang, and the latter followed the suggestion, nearly grounding on a new and uncharted sandbank as he did so. Under the lee of the island the full force of the current was broken, and they were able to make some headway until again exposed to its full violence on the farther side. By dint of tacking between this or that island or promontory, they finally managed to make slow but steady progress up the angry river, although, as the Mohamedan engineer below remarked encouragingly from time to time, it was only Allah the Compassionate who knew how long the injine would hold together. The Subaltern, now clothed and in his right mind-and clasping an enormous ham - sandwich to his bosom-scrambled upon the bridge with a view to making more comprehensive professional inquiry into the nature of the local tactics employed for circumventing anarchists in cataracts. "What are we actually supposed to be doing?" he shouted above the racket from the clanging engine room, and the great thumping rumble of the labouring paddle-wheel. "It's like this," the Policeman shouted back. "I've just got a wire from my boss. He's fifty miles up-stream. About a dozen chaps belonging to a particularly pestiferous secret society have slipped through his fingers, and have taken to the river. They're coming down-stream now in a native dug-out at whatever pace you like to call the current. They're almost certain to make for a certain tributary called the Bandamukhi, which joins the main stream about seven miles above us. If they get there before we do, they'll probably escape altogether, because the Bandamukhi isn't navigable for any screw- or paddle-propelled boat; it's all silted up for one thing, and bung-full up with lotuses for another." "I see," replied the Subaltern; "but even if they do slip up this bolt-hole of theirs before we arrive, can't we still continue the movement by chasing them in our dingey?" The Policeman shook his head tolerantly, and shouted down the speaking - tube. "No," he explained a few minutes later when he had ended his remarks on the principles of stoking, "it's no earthly good going after them once they're up the Bandamukhi. For one thing, the jungle's so dense and overhanging that you can't see more than fifty yards at a stretch, and to go on with, the stream-such as it issplits up into a dozen minor channels, which go meandering about in all directions. You might as well look for a needle in a haystack as for a boatload of anarchists in a thousand square miles of bog, quicksand, and tigergrass. However, if my calculations are correct, we ought to be on the spot before they are, always provided"-he hedged "the engines stand the racket and we don't run into fog." -- "Any chance of these Johnnies comin' to grief this sort of weather?" asked the Subaltern. "No. A shallow draught native dug-out running with the stream is as safe as houses." "How will you spot this particular dug-out among others?" "Because it's such a h-]] of a night that no native craft with a clear conscience will be moving about the river at least, not voluntarily. Anyhow, bad weather narrows our search." "Will they put up a show if we do round them up?" "You bet," came the grim reply. "If they're the chaps we think they are, two are certain lifers' if caught, and a third's a hanging case; he derailed a train. The Bengali can fight when he wants tothat's to say, when he's cornered like a rat in a trap." The Hun-Child brightened visibly. "What a joke this all is," he said happily; "it beats Messpot all to pieces. I mean, you seldom see the stinkin' Turk within half a mile of you; but this scrap of yours ought to be a heartto-heart sort of show-like a footer serum.” His friend smiled dryly as he eyed the swollen river ahead with dispassionate gaze. "At this rate," he remarked unsympathetically, after giving a sudden sharp command to the helmsman, "it's much more likely to resemble a burial at sea. . . . Shall we dodge that next great lump of muck all right, I wonder "-he added fatalistically-"or not?" That "next great lump of muck" one of many apparent floating islands which were continually tearing past them in the moonlight on either beam, Such driftsdam was for the most part composed of mighty groves of heavytrunked trees, uprooted wholesale by the flood, and which, with their greenery still flaunting above the surface, were being whirled rapidly seawards. A collision-or even a graze -with the least among such formidable collections of derelict timber would have sunk the Vampire in thirty seconds, 28 the oool boy now driving his gimcrack vessel between their angry eddies knew only too well. Just a year previously he had experienced one such violent encounter afloat, and since he and two serangs had been the only survivors out of a crew of fifteen souls, he had not altogether forgotten the episode. "Will your anarchist pals be decently armed?" went on the importunate Han Child, as unabashed he watched his friend's directions to the now frankly terrified helmsman. The tone in which his inquiry was made implied that he hoped that they would be. "You needn't worry," replied his friend laconically. "Any. how, they'll not be worse armed than the Government Police. My constables," he explained rather bitterly, "are only trusted with obsolete army carbines." At that moment the look-out serang gave a long-drawn nasal ory in some unknown language. However, the Assistant Superintendent of Police seemed to grasp its import, for shading his eyes for a minute against the tropic moon glare, he direoted the Subaltern's attention to a small black bobbing speck that stained the brilliance of the silvery water a few miles ahead. "There they are," he said briefly. "Five to one those are the chaps we want. Before their time though by my calculations. Still, as they haven't made the Bandamukhi it doesn't much matter." The Hun-Child danced about the bridge like an agitated foxterrier, and then rushed below to retrieve a sporting rifle. "It's like this," the Policeman shouted back. "I've just got a wire from my boss. He's fifty miles up-stream. About a dozen chaps belonging to a particularly pestiferous secret society have slipped through his fingers, and have taken to the river. They're coming down-stream now in a native dug-out at whatever pace you like to call the ourrent. They're almost certain to make for a certain tributary called the Bandamukhi, which joins the main stream about seven miles above us. If they get there before we do, they'll probably escape altogether, because the Bandamukhi isn't navigable for any screw- or paddle-propelled boat; it's all silted up for one thing, and bung-full up with lotuses for another." "I see," replied the Subaltern; "but even if they do slip up this bolt-hole of theirs before we arrive, can't we still continue the movement by chasing them in our dingey?" The Policeman shook his head tolerantly, and shouted down the speaking - tube. "No," he explained a few minutes later when he had ended his remarks on the principles of stoking, "it's no earthly good going after them once they're up the Bandamukhi. For one thing, the jungle's so dense and overhanging that you can't see more than fifty yards at stretch, and to go on with, the stream such as it issplits up into a dozen minor channels, which go meandering about in all directions. You might as well look for a needle in a haystack as for a boatload of anarchists in a thousand square miles of bog, quicksand, and tigergrass. However, if my ealoulations are correct, we ought to be on the spot before they are, always provided" - he hedged "the engines stand the racket and we don't run into fog." "Any chance of these Johnnies comin' to grief this sort of weather?" asked the Subaltern. "No. A shallow-draught native dug-out running with the stream is as safe 88 houses." "How will you spot this particular dug-out among others?" "Because it's such a h-ll of a night that no native craft with a clear conscience will be moving about the river -at at least, not voluntarily. Anyhow, bad weather narrows our search." "Will they put up a show if we do round them up?" "You bet," came the grim reply. "If they're the chaps we think they are, two are certain 'lifers' if caught, and a third's a hanging case; he derailed a train. The Bengali can fight when he wants tothat's to say, when he's cornered like a rat in a trap." The Hun-Child brightened visibly. "What a joke this ... all is," he said happily; "it beats Messpot all to pieces. I mean, you seldom see the stinkin' Turk within half a mile of you; but this scrap of yours ought to be a heartto-heart sort of show-like a footer serum." His friend smiled dryly as he eyed the swollen river ahead with dispassionate gaze. "At this rate," he remarked unsympathetically, after giving a sudden sharp command to the helmsman, "it's much more likely to resemble a burial at sea. .. Shall we dodge that next great lump of muck all right, I wonder "-he added fatalistically-"or not?" That "next great lump of muck" was one of many apparent floating islands which were continually tearing past them in the moonlight on either beam, Such driftsdam was for the most part composed of mighty groves of heavytrunked trees, uprooted wholesale by the flood, and which, with their greenery still flaunting above the surface, were being whirled rapidly searapidly seawards. A collision-or even a graze -with the least among such formidable collections of derelict timber would have sunk the Vampire in thirty seconds, 88 the cool boy now driving his gimcrack vessel between their angry eddies knew only too well. Just a year previously he had experienced one such violent encounter afloat, and since he and two serangs had been the only survivors out of a orew of fifteen souls, he had not altogether forgotten the episode. "Will your anarchist pals be decently armed?" went on the importunate Hun Child, as unabashed he watched his friend's directions to the now frankly terrified helmsman. The tone in which his inquiry was made implied that he hoped that they would be. "You needn't worry," replied his friend laconically. "Anyhow, they'll not be worse armed than the Government Police. My constables," he explained rather bitterly, "are only trusted with obsolete army carbines." At that moment the look-out serang gave a long-drawn nasal cry in some unknown language. However, the Assistant Superintendent of Police seemed to grasp its import, for shading his eyes for a minute against the tropic moon glare, he direoted the Subaltern's attention to a small black bobbing speck that stained the brilliance of the silvery water a few miles ahead. ahead. "There they are," he said briefly. "Five to one those are the chaps we want. Before their time though by my calculations. Still, as they haven't made the Bandamukhi it doesn't much matter." The Hun-Child danced about the bridge like an agitated foxterrier, and then rushed below to retrieve a sporting rifle. |