An Adventure in the Pahang River
There was a scuffle in the outer office, and a thin, piping voice was calling down
all the curses of the Koran on the heads of my great top-heavy Hindu guards.
“Sons of dogs,” I heard in the most withering contempt, “I will see the Tuan
Consul. Know he is my father.”
A tall Sikh, with his great red turban awry and his brown kaki uniform torn and
soiled, pushed through the bamboo chicks and into my presence.
He was dragging a small bit of naked humanity by the folds of its faded cotton
sarong.
The powerful soldier was hot and flushed, and a little stream of blood trickling
from his finger tips showed where they had come in contact with his captive’s
teeth. It was as though an elephant had been worried by a pariah cur.