“Tuan see. This monkey very wise,” and he made a motion with his stick. The
little fellow sprang from the railing to his bare head, and sat holding on to his
long black hair.
“See, Tuan,” and he made another motion, and the monkey leaped to the ground
and commenced to run around his master, hopping first on one foot and then on
the other, raising his arms over his head like a ballet dancer. After every
revolution he would stop and turn a handspring.
The Malay all the time kept up a droning kind of a song in his native tongue,
improvising as he went along.
The tenor of it was that one Hamat, a poor Malay, but a good Mohammedan,
who had never been to Mecca, wanted to go to become a Hadji. He had no
money but he had a good monkey that was very dear to him. He had found it in a
distant jungle, beyond Johore, when a little baby; had brought it up like one of
his own children and had taught it to dance and salaam.
Now he must sell the monkey to the great Tuan, or Lord, that the money might
help take him to Mecca. The monkey must dance well and please the mighty
Tuan.
As the little fellow danced, he kept one eye on me as though he understood it all.
“How old is he?” I asked, becoming interested.
“Just as old as your Excellency would like,” he replied, bowing.
“Is he a year old?”
“If the Tuan please.”
“Well, how much do you want for him?”
“What your Excellency can give.”
“Twenty-five dollars?” I asked.
His face lit up from chin to forehead. He hitched nervously at the folds of his