Mr. Lawrence laughed.
"Be not deceived by that long visage, Miss Hosmer. I have a foreboding that he will prove a terror. Time will tell."
Dwight was of course wild to invest, also, but his uncle said,
"No, my boy! One monkey is a good many. Wait and see how this will turn out. There's no end to the opportunities for monkey deals in this part of the world. They are a drug on the market."
Meanwhile, the stately vender set his tree against a wall and began gravely untying the wizened little specimen from his branch, then handed him into the eagerly outstretched hands of Faith with a superb smile, as if he were some great potentate conferring a priceless boon upon a beloved subject. Not that he was anything but the poorest fellah,[2] with scarce a sou to his credit, but this is Oriental mannerism, and most impressive mannerism it is, too.
He then raised his finger and addressed a regular harangue to the creature, who, with tail curled about Faith's wrist, sat gravely upon his two palms and listened. The tiny beast was so moveless, so attentive, and so solemn, its master so earnest and impressive that all looked on wonderingly until, having finished his remarks, the Arab gave a last shake of his dingy finger monkeywards, salaamed low to the party, then shouldering his burden stalked on once more, the little captive looking after him for a minute, and then wrinkling up his mummy visage to give a weak, babyish cry.
"Oh, dear! He's going to be homesick," groaned Faith, almost repenting of her bargain. "See him cry after the man! What shall I do with him?"
"Let me take him," urged Dwight. "I'll button him up in my jacket and he'll forget and go to sleep, and then, when he wakes, he'll be all right."
"Do you think so? Well, here he is—but tie the string tight to something, so that you won't lose him, please."
"Of course—to my buttonhole, here. There Mr. Monkey, you can't complain of that for a nest—see here! Don't scratch so, you little varmint! You'll tear my shirt front to smithereens."