her hand.

Babalatchi picked up his staff and prepared to go. It was very warm, and
he did not care for the long pull to the Rajah's house. Yet he must go
and tell the Rajah--tell of the event; of the change in his plans; of all
his suspicions. He walked to the jetty and began casting off the rattan
painter of his canoe.

The broad expanse of the lower reach, with its shimmering surface dotted
by the black specks of the fishing canoes, lay before his eyes. The
fishermen seemed to be racing. Babalatchi paused in his work, and looked
on with sudden interest. The man in the foremost canoe, now within hail
of the first houses of Sambir, laid in his paddle and stood up shouting--

"The boats! the boats! The man-of-war's boats are coming! They are
here!"

In a moment the settlement was again alive with people rushing to the
riverside. The men began to unfasten their boats, the women stood in
groups looking towards the bend down the river. Above the trees lining
the reach a slight puff of smoke appeared like a black stain on the
brilliant blue of the cloudless sky.

Babalatchi stood perplexed, the painter in his hand. He looked down the
reach, then up towards Almayer's house, and back again at the river as if
undecided what to do. At last he made the canoe fast again hastily, and
ran towards the house and up the steps of the verandah.

"Tuan! Tuan!" he called, eagerly. "The boats are coming. The man-of-
war's boats. You had better get ready. The officers will come here, I