They set to work, and the meal was in due course served and eaten.  Afterwards Codd went on guard, being relieved by Hayle at midnight.  Ever since they had made the ghastly discovery in the jungle, the latter had been more silent even than the gravity of the situation demanded.  Now he sat, nursing his rifle, listening to the mysterious voices of the jungle, and thinking as if for dear life.  Meanwhile his companions slept soundly on, secure in the fact that he was watching over them.

At last Hayle rose to his feet.

“It’s my only chance,” he said to himself, as he went softly across to where Kitwater was lying.  “It must be now or never!”

Kneeling beside the sleeping man, he felt for the packet of precious stones they had that day obtained.  Having found it he transferred it to his own pocket, and then returned to his former position as quietly as he had come.  Then, having secured as much of their store of ammunition as he could conveniently carry, together with a supply of food sufficient to last him for several days, he deserted his post, abandoned his friends, and disappeared into the jungle!

PART III

The sun was slowly sinking behind the dense wall of jungle which hems in, on the southern side, the frontier station of Nampoung.  In the river below there is a Ford, which has a distinguished claim on fame, inasmuch as it is one of the gateways from Burmah into Western China.  This Ford is guarded continually by a company of Sikhs, under the command of an English officer.  To be candid, it is not a post that is much sought after.  Its dullness is extraordinary.  True, one can fish there from morning until night, if one is so disposed; and if one has the good fortune to be a botanist, there is an inexhaustible field open for study.  It is also true that Nampoung is only thirty miles or so, as the crow flies, from Bhamo, and when one has been in the wilds, and out of touch of civilization for months at a time, Bhamo is by no means a place to be despised.  So thought Gregory, of the 123rd Burmah Regiment, as he threw his line into the pool below him.

“It’s worse than a dog’s life,” he said to himself, as he looked at the Ford a hundred yards or so to his right, where, at the moment, his subaltern was engaged levying toll upon some Yunnan merchants who were carrying cotton on pack-mules into China.  After that he glanced behind him at the little cluster of buildings on the hill, and groaned once more.  “I wonder what they are doing in England,” he continued.  “Trout-fishing has just begun, and I can imagine the dear old Governor at the Long Pool, rod in hand.  The girls will stroll down in the afternoon to find out what sport he has had, and they’ll walk home across the Park with him, while the Mater will probably meet them half way.  And here am I in this God-forsaken hole with nothing to do but to keep an eye on that Ford there.  Bhamo is better than this; Mandalay is better than Bhamo, and Rangoon is better than either.  Chivvying dakus is paradise compared with this sort of thing.  Anyhow, I’m tired of fishing.”