the little girl mothers who were carrying water and weaving mats did not
sometimes long to get down on the warm, white sands and have a regular romp
among themselves,—playing “Cat-a-corner” or “I spy”; for none of them were
over seventeen or eighteen!
Still their lives are not unhappy. Their husbands are kind and sober, and they are
never destitute. They have their families about them, and hear laughter and
merriment from one sunny year to another.
Busuk’s father-in-law is dead now, and the last time I visited Bander Bahru to
shoot wild pig, Mamat was punghulo, collecting the taxes and administering the
laws.
He raised the back of his open palm to his forehead with a quiet dignity when I
left, after the day’s sport, and said, “Tabek! Tuan Consul. Do not forget Mamat’s
humble bungalow.” And Busuk came down the ladder with little Mamat astride
her bare shoulders, with a pleasant “Tabek! Tuan! (Good-by, my lord.) May
Allah’s smile be ever with you.”