“Piang, what’s the idea? Let’s get on,” impatiently said Lewis.
“This His Excellency Paduca Majasari Amiril Sultan Harun Narrasid’s house,” replied Piang with awe.
“Gee, what a name!” exclaimed Lewis. “And to go with that dugout, too. Say, Piang, I suppose we could call the old chap Pad for short?”
Piang grinned, but instantly went on his knees, head touching the ground as a sullen, dark face, a white scar slashed across the cheek, appeared at the opening.
“What does the beggar mean by that grunt, Sergeant?” asked Lewis.
“That’s the old boy himself, sir, wanting to know why you have disturbed his royal sleep.”
Lewis was dumfounded! This dirty, insignificant creature the sultan! He wanted to laugh, but the solemn little figure, prostrate before the man, made him say quietly:
“Piang, get up, I want you to talk to him.”
Timidly the boy raised his eyes to his august lord; another grunt seemed to give Piang permission, for he rose and faced Lewis.
“What you want Piang to say? Be careful. He not like joke and might chop off Americanos.”