|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmeiq

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. That's what I would like. That's
what I must have."
II
Along the hot and gloomy forest path, neglected, overgrown and
strangled in the fierce life of the jungle, there came a faint
rustle of leaves. Jaffir, the servant of princes, the messenger
of great men, walked, stooping, with a broad chopper in his hand.
He was ########## from the waist upward, his shoulders and arms were
scratched and bleeding. A multitude of biting insects made a
cloud about his head. He had lost his costly and ancient
head-kerchief, and when in a slightly wider space he stopped in a
listening attitude anybody would have taken him for a fugitive.
He waved his arms about, slapping his shoulders, the sides of his
head, his heaving flanks; then, motionless, listened again for a
while. A sound of firing, not so much made faint by distance as
muffled by the masses of foliage, reached his ears, dropping
shots which he could have counted if he had cared to. "There is
fighting in the forest already," he thought. Then putting his
head low in the tunnel of vegetation he dashed forward out of the
horrible cloud of flies, which he actually managed for an instant
to leave behind him. But it was not from the cruelty of insects
that he was flying, for no yilai：
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedablmvj