UP A TREE IN THE JUNGLE 207 
spent my first months among the Malays. It was 
Ali’s home, and I was in duty bound to take his 
kris back for him. The old hadji received me af- 
fectionately and heard the story of his nephew’s 
death. 
“He died bravely, tian?” he asked. 
“Yes, and in the faith.” 
The hadji nodded; that was what he wanted to 
know—whether or not Ali died a good Mahom- 
medan. 
“On what day did he die, than?” 
I could not remember what day it was, but I 
knew what the old man hoped and I answered, 
“Friday.” 
That meant that Ali was certain of Paradise. 
I said good-by to the hadji and went back to 
Singapore to catch my boat. The fever was still 
racking my body, but, when I saw the Red Sea 
behind us once more, I knew that luck had been 
with me. 
