'Hast thou the skin, O Äbas?' asked the Pĕnghûlu, 'for I am renewing the faces of
my drums, and would fain purchase it.'
'The skin was mangy, and we cast it into the river,' said Äbas.
'What ails thy father, Äbas?' asked the Pĕnghûlu returning to the charge.
'He is sick,' said suddenly a voice from the curtained doorway, which led to the
inner apartment. It was the elder son Äbdulrahman who spoke. He held a sword
in his hand, and his face wore an ugly look as his words came harshly and
gratingly with the foreign accent of the Korinchi people. He went on, still
standing, near the doorway, 'He is sick, O Pĕnghûlu, and the noise of your words
disturbs him. He would slumber and be still. Descend out of the house, he cannot
see thee, Pĕnghûlu. Listen to these my words!'
Äbdulrahman's manner, and the words he spoke, were at once so rough and
defiant that the Pĕnghûlu saw that he must choose between a scuffle, which
would mean bloodshed, and a hasty retreat. He was a mild old man, and he drew
a monthly salary from the Pêrak Government. Moreover, he knew that the white
men, who guided the destinies of Pêrak, were averse to bloodshed and homicide,
even if the person slain was a wizard, or the son of a wizard. Therefore he
decided upon retreat.
As they clambered down the steps of the door-ladder, Mat Tahir, one of the
Pĕnghûlu's men, plucked him by the sleeve, and pointed to a spot beneath the
house. Just below the place, in the inner apartment, where Haji Äli might be
supposed to lie stretched upon the mat of sickness, the ground was stained a dim
red for a space of several inches in circumference. Malay floors are made of
laths of wood or of bamboo laid parallel to one another, with spaces between
each one of them. This is convenient, as the whole of the ground beneath the
house can thus be used as a slop-pail, waste-basket, and rubbish heap. The red
stain lying where it did had the look of blood, blood moreover from some one
within the house, whose wound had very recently been washed and dressed. It
might also have been the red juice of the betel-nut, but its stains are but rarely
seen in such large patches. Whatever it may have been the Pĕnghûlu and his
people had no opportunity of examining it more closely, for Äbdulrahman and
Äbas followed them out of the compound, and barred the door against them.
Then the Pĕnghûlu set off to tell his tale to the District Officer, the white man
under whose charge the Slim Valley had been placed. He went with many
misgivings, for Europeans are sceptical concerning such tales, and when he