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 With the Dyaks of Borneo

 BY Captain Brereton


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[Illustration: THE PIRATES' STRONGHOLD]




 With
 The Dyaks of Borneo

 A Tale of the Head Hunters

 BY

 CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON

 Author of "Kidnapped by Moors" "A Boy of the Dominion" "The Hero of
 Panama" "Tom Stapleton, the Boy Scout" &c.

 _ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I_.

 NEW EDITION

 BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
 LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY




    CONTENTS


    CHAP.                              Page

       I. TYLER RICHARDSON                9

      II. EASTWARD HO!                   24

     III. PREPARING FOR A JOURNEY        40

      IV. A TRAITOR AND A VILLAIN        58

       V. ESCAPE FROM THE SCHOONER       76

      VI. COURAGE WINS THE DAY           96

     VII. FLIGHT ACROSS THE LAND        116

    VIII. MEETING THE DYAKS             136

      IX. ON FOOT THROUGH THE JUNGLE    156

       X. THE PIRATE STRONGHOLD         176

      XI. A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER          196

     XII. CAPTAIN OF A FLEET            216

    XIII. THE RAJAH OF SARAWAK          236

     XIV. A DANGEROUS ENTERPRISE        256

      XV. OFF TO THE RIVER SABEBUS      274

     XVI. HEMMED IN                     294

    XVII. DANGER AND DIFFICULTY         314

   XVIII. A NARROW ESCAPE               334

     XIX. AN ATTACK UPON THE STOCKADES  354

      XX. THE END OF THE CHASE          373




    ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                          Page

    THE PIRATES' STRONGHOLD      _Frontispiece_           185

    THE FIGHT AT THE STERN                                 78

    "HE SPRANG AT TYLER"                                  138

    THE CONFERENCE WITH THE TRIBESMEN                     150

    ELUDING THE PIRATES                                   238

    "HE LAUNCHED THE MISSILE AT THEM"                     296




CHAPTER I

Tyler Richardson


It was a balmy autumn day four years after Queen Victoria ascended the
throne, and the neighbourhood of Southampton Water was looking perhaps
more brilliant and more beautiful than it had during the long summer
which had just passed. Already the leaves were covering the ground, and
away across the water pine-trees stood up like sentinels amidst others
which had already lost their covering. A dim blue haze in the distance
denoted the presence of Southampton, then as now a thriving seaport town.

Situated on a low eminence within some hundred yards of the sea, and
commanding an extended view to either side and in front, was a tiny
creeper-clad cottage with gabled roof and twisted chimneys. Behind the
little residence there was a square patch of kitchen-garden, in which
a grizzled, weather-beaten individual was toiling, whilst in front a
long strip of turf, in which were many rose beds, extended as far as the
wicket-gate which gave access to the main Portsmouth road.

Seated in the picturesque porch of the cottage, with a long clay pipe
between his lips, and a telescope of large dimensions beside him, was a
gray-headed gentleman whose dress at once betokened that in his earlier
days he had followed the sea as a calling. In spite of his sunken
cheeks, and general air of ill-health, no one could have mistaken him
for other than a sailor; and if there had been any doubt the clothes
he wore would have at once settled the question. But Captain John
Richardson, to give him his full title, was proud of the fact that he
had at one time belonged to the royal navy, and took particular pains
to demonstrate it to all with whom he came in contact. It was a little
vanity for which he might well be excused, and, besides, he was such a
genial good-natured man that no one would have thought of blaming him.

On this particular day some question of unusual importance seemed to
be absorbing the captain's whole attention. His eyes had a far-away
expression, his usually wrinkled brow was puckered in an alarming
manner, and the lips, between which rested the stem of his clay pipe,
were pursed up in the most thoughtful position. Indeed, so much was he
occupied that he forgot even to pull at his smoke, and in consequence
the tobacco had grown cold.

"That's the sixth time!" he suddenly exclaimed, with a muttered
expression of disgust, awaking suddenly from his reverie. "I've used
nearly half the box of matches already, and that is an extravagance
which I cannot afford. No, John Richardson, matches are dear to you at
least, for you are an unfortunate dog with scarcely enough to live on,
and with nothing in your pocket to waste. But I'd forego many little
luxuries, and willingly cut down my