“Here, Jake, hang this mistletoe up over the folding doors,” commanded the corporal, handing him a bamboo shoot, and pointing to the tent door. “Now when she comes asailin’ in to dinner, all unaware of your presence, smack her a good one, right on the bull’s eye.”
Laughter and shouts greeted this order, and when Kid Conner offered to impersonate a lovely damsel and, with mincing step and bashful mien, appeared at the opening, Jake was game, and a skuffle ensued. Shrieks of merriment coming from the cook tent aroused Lewis’s curiosity, and even his weighty matters were forgotten when he beheld Irish cooky on his knees before the incinerator arranging a row of well-worn socks. Solemnly folding his hands he raised his eyes in supplication:
“Dear Santa, don’t forget your children in this far-away jungle. We are minus a chimney on this insinuator, but we are bettin’ on you and the reindeers just the same, to slip one over on us and come shinnin’ down a cocoanut-tree with your pack. Never mind the trimmin’s and holly, just bring plenty of cut plug and dry matches.”
And so the day worn on. Toward noon the storm broke; runners announced the approach of the sultan, and Lewis was far from calm when he gave the order to admit him to camp.
“Piang,” he said, “there is the deuce to pay, I know, but you stick by your uncle, and we will pull through.”
No insignificant nigger greeted Lewis this time. The sultan had come in state. Where he had gathered his train, the men could not imagine, but there he was, garbed in royal raiment, attended by slaves and retainers. Solemnly the procession advanced. Advisers, wives, slaves, and boys with buyo-boxes followed his majesty, who was arrayed in a red silk sarong, grotesquely embroidered with glass beads, colored stones, and real pearls. His hair was festooned with trinkets strung on wire, and on his fingers were fastened tiny bells that jingled and tinkled incessantly. They got on Lewis’s nerves, and he quaked inwardly when he realized why he was honored by this visit.
Finally when the members of the court had arranged themselves around their master, he loftily signaled for his buyo; Lewis, nothing daunted, motioned to his striker. Amid smothered laughter he produced the lieutenant’s pipe and tobacco, using a tin wash-basin for a tray. Mimicking the actions of the royal slave the man salaamed before Lewis and proffered the pipe. Lest the sultan should despise his barren state, minus slaves, advisers, and wives, Lewis summoned Sergeant Greer and directed him to remain beside him to share the honor of the visit.
When Lewis caught Irish cooky, arrayed in apron and undershirt, with a basting spoon and a meat ax held at attention, making faces at his old sergeant, the humor of the situation came over him, and he smiled to himself as he looked at the scene before him: the banana-trees, loosely flapping their wilted leaves, the socks idly waiting to be the center of merriment again, the troop drawn up at attention, regardless of the variety of uniform, and beyond, the Sabah, sole reminder of civilization, bobbing at anchor.
Never removing his eyes from Lewis’s face, the sultan completed the ceremony of the buyo, and after deliberately rolling a quid of betel-nut, lime-dust, and tobacco leaves, the august person stuffed it into his mouth.
The trees rang with silence. Lewis thought his ears would burst as he strained them to catch the first sound that was to decide his fate. Faithfully Piang remained by his friend’s side, despite the angry glances directed toward him from the sultan’s party; the lad was fearful of the outcome of this tangle.