The Malay salaamed again.
“My friend here isn’t an English prince. We are English officers. And my friend here says you may tell Mr Abdullah there that he does not bear any malice against him for the attack. If he asks pardon, that is enough.”
This being interpreted to Abdullah, who remained humbly bent, he started up, and catching Tom Long’s hands, kissed them both, and afterwards Bob’s, very much to that young gentleman’s disgust, though Tom received the salute with a good deal of dignity, posing himself to look to the best advantage in the presence of the ladies.
“There, that’ll do now,” said Bob. “It’s all right, only tell Mr Abdullah not to be so handy with his kris again, and that I—Mr Roberts, of Her Majesty’s ship ‘Startler’—think he ought to present us with some durians.”
This was duly interpreted to the Malay, who drew back, gazing keenly from the ensign to the middy, and back again, his dark eyes seeming to flash, as he said something in his native tongue to the interpreter.
“Dullah say you throw durian again in his face, and it make him mad.”
“No, no, old fellow, nothing of the kind,” said Bob, laying his hand on Abdullah’s shoulder. “That’s all past.”
The Malay judged his meaning from his looks, and not from his words. Then smiling, he leaped back into the boat, and returned laden with the finest fruit he had, which he offered to the young officers with no little grace and dignity, smiling pleasantly the while, but manifesting nothing little or servile.
The ladies looked on so wonderingly, that Bob had to leave the durians and explain, returning directly after, though, to the Malays, and obtaining a splendid bunch of the sweet flowers of the waringhan tree, which he carried back to the ladies, who smiled, thanked him, and took their departure.
“I never saw such a fellow as you are, Roberts,” said the ensign, sulkily, as Bob returned; “you always seem to know what to say or do when ladies are present. I don’t!”