JUNGLE HUNTER 257 



the poot-poot bird, and the hoarse croaking of the 

 herons in the evening. There was no twilight. 

 The sun set at six, and half an hour later it was 

 dark. The water was of a deep garnet color, 

 sometimes in the larger river so deep as to be 

 almost black, and a mirror that reflected the palms 

 and our paddles as we moved over its surface. 

 Occasionally as we paddled along, usually at about 

 three miles an hour, we met a low native canoe, with 

 paddlers crouching bow and stern, using the nar- 

 row, long-pointed blade of the Malay paddle with 

 silent powerful stroke ; but these were few and far 

 between. There was little travel on the river, and 

 even at the settlements were sometimes not more 

 than three or four, never to exceed a dozen, men. 

 Thus working our way toward the interior, natives 

 became scarcer, and after a couple of weeks disap- 

 peared entirely. 



Meantime I had found Uda a source unfailing 

 of entertainment and interest. I wish I could re- 

 count the marvellous tales he unwound for my 

 benefit. I rather encouraged him, for he was pic- 

 turesque, and it suited my purpose to size him up 

 before we got upon the more serious business of 

 hunting in the jungle. Perhaps the most fre- 

 quently recurring theme of Uda's life story was his 

 intrepid conduct in the face of wounded and 

 fiercely charging wild beasts, and his contempt for 



17 



