"Mademoiselle of Armentières. Sure, ye know that one, Looey. Goes to the tune o' 'Parley-Voo.'"
Wherewith he lifted up a foghorn voice and, much to the edification of "Joey" (whose name really was Joao) and the rest of Remate de Males, burst into song:
"Mademoiselle of Armenteers,
Pa-a-arley-voo!
She smoked our butts and bummed our beers,
Pa-a-arley-voo!
She had cockeyes and jackass ears
And she hadn't been kissed for forty years,
Rinkydinky-parley-voo!"
As his musical effort ended, out from the dense jungle hemming in the town burst a hideous roaring howl. Again and again it sounded in a horrible crash of noise.
"Holy Saint Pat!" gasped Tim, throwing his rifle to port and bracing his feet. "Now look what I went and done! Is that the echo, or a couple dozen jaggers all fightin' to oncet?"
"Guariba, Senhor Ree-ann," snickered Joao. "Not jaguars—no. Only one little guariba monkey. The howler."
"G'wan! Ye're kiddin'!"
"But no, amigo. It is as I tell you. One monkey. It is sunset, and the jungle awakes."
"My gosh! I'll say it does. Sounds like a Sat'day night row in a Second Av'noo saloon, except there ain't no shootin'. Guess you boys have some night life, too, even if ye are away back in the bush."
"Time for us to move, Tim," laughed Knowlton. "It'll be dark in no time. Joao, will you have our baggage moved to the hotel?"