The boat was a large, clumsy-looking craft, which would hold all their party, with the baggage, without overcrowding. Moreover, it was not so clumsy as it appeared, for afterward, when the four natives under Jai Singh’s orders settled down to work with their oars, they showed that they could make good time even with a sluggish current against them and in the oppressive heat that even as the sun approached the west, made the white men gasp for breath. They were not started yet, however. Jai Singh, Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, and Chick were all on the rough landing stage, looking at the boat, to see that everything was stowed in that might be required, when there was a shout behind them. Half a dozen natives were stalking in their direction, and there was an indescribable air of official determination pervading the whole procession. “Hello!” ejaculated Arnold. “What’s broken loose here? What do those black scalawags think they want?” “Let the sahib keep quiet,” requested Jai Singh, in a low voice. “It is I who will talk to them.” “Just as you like,” returned the millionaire, with a shrug. “I’m quite willing to keep out of the powwow, so long as it does not hold us up on our journey after my poor boy.” “We shan’t be held up,” put in Nick Carter. “I’ll promise you that.” Jefferson Arnold nodded. “Stop!” Jai Singh, with upraised hand, shouted this peremptory order. At the same time he allowed the butt of his lance to drop with a loud bang upon the planks under his feet. All the men stopped but the one in the lead. Nick Carter recognized him as the surly fellow they had met when they got off the train, and who afterward had provided them with their boat. The rascal had demanded enough money to have bought such a boat twice over in India. But on Nick Carter’s whispering that it was the best way to avoid delay, Jefferson Arnold had paid it without demur. “I could get it for you at about half that price,” Nick had added. “But it would mean several hours of bargaining, and that would keep us here till the morning. It is desirable to get away to-night.” Jefferson Arnold would rather have paid four times the worth of the boat than be kept another twelve hours in this village. “What do you want?” demanded Jai Singh now, as the surly native stalked forward. Nick Carter observed that the native had put on clean white raiment, and that there was a ruby holding together the upper garment on his chest. His turban was new and white, and there were more gold anklets and bracelets on him than had been there when they first saw him. “Who’s the pretty boy with the curtain rings on him?” observed Chick. “Hum! He is an official of some rank,” whispered Nick Carter. “Yes, and he’s dolled himself up so that we shall know it,” was the assistant’s smiling reply. “He might be a rajah or a begum or something of that kind, judging by his manner.” “I want pay for the boat,” returned the man, answering Jai Singh’s question. “I am Baboo Punyah.”