sarong, and changed the quid of red betel-nut from one corner of his mouth to
the other.
“Here, Hamat,” I said, laughing, “here is five dollars; take it; when you come
back from Mecca with a green turban come and see me. If I am sick of the
monkey, you can have him back.”
So commenced our acquaintance with Lepas. We got into the habit of calling
him Lepas, because it was the Malay for “let go,” which definition we broadened
until it became a term of correction for every form of mischief. He was such a
restless, active little imp, with hands into everything and upon everything, that it
was “Lepas!” from morning to night.
He soon learned the word’s twofold meaning. If we said “Lepas” sternly, he
subsided at once; but when we called it pleasantly he came running across the
room and leaped into our laps.
It did not take Lepas as long to forget his former master as it did to forget his
former habits. In truth, his civilization was never more than skin deep.