Malay prahus were so thoroughly connected in the lad’s reading with piracy, that he looked curiously at the first they encountered, and eagerly scanned the calm, rather scornful faces of the men who apathetically stood about the bamboo deck, and watched the passing of the swift, white-sailed yacht, while they distorted their cheeks by slowly chewing something within.
“What’s that fellow doing?” said Jack, handing his double glass to the mate, who gave a quick glance through and handed it back. “Look for yourself.”
Jack resumed his inspection of the prahu’s deck, for it was not above forty yards away.
“Doing something with a bit of—I don’t know what, which he has taken out of a little bag.”
“Betel-nut from one of the palms which grow in these parts,” said the mate.
“Now he has slowly taken a leaf out of the same bag.”
“Sirih leaf; a kind of creeping pepper plant which runs up trees,” said the mate.
“And now he is opening a little brass box, which has something that looks like a white paint.”
“Lime,” said the mate, “lime of a very fine kind, made by burning shells.”
“And he is spreading some of it with one finger upon the leaf.”