The sailor lowered a rope. Something was tied to it beneath. The
Mahommedan apparently had little fear of being detected.

"Pull, sahib."

"Usually it is the sahib who says 'pull,' but circumstances alter
cases," communed Jenks. He hauled steadily at a heavy weight--a
goatskin filled with cold water. He emptied the hot and sour wine out
of the tin cup, and was about to hand the thrice-welcome draught to
Iris when a suspicious thought caused him to withhold it.

"Let me taste first," he said.

The Indian might have betrayed them to the Dyaks. More unlikely things
had happened. What if the water were poisoned or drugged?

He placed the tin to his lips. The liquid was musty, having been in the
skin nearly two days. Otherwise it seemed to be all right. With a sigh
of profound relief he gave Iris the cup, and smiled at the most
unladylike haste with which she emptied it.

"Drink yourself, and give me some more," she said.

"No more for you at present, madam. In a few minutes, yes."

"Oh, why not now?"

"Do not fret, dear one. You can have all you want in a little while.
But to drink much now would make you very ill."