But Mr Ebony was not satisfied with his contribution to the breakfast, for, striking me on the breast, pointing to the fire, and saying, “Ikan, Ikan, youf, youf,” several times over, I repeated them to his satisfaction, understanding that he meant I was to mind the fish, and then he went off quickly.
“Ikan,” said my uncle, “that’s the Malay word for fish, so I suppose they use some Malay words though their language is quite different.”
“Then he said, ‘youf, youf,’ uncle.”
“Yes: youf must mean cooking or fire, which is api in the Malay tongue. But this fresh morning air gives me an appetite, Nat. I hope he won’t be long; turn the fish, my lad, it’s burning.”
“No, uncle, it’s only brown,” I replied, altering the position of the great collops; “but how beautiful it smells!”
“Yes, Nat, we want no fish sauces out here, my boy.”
“Where did you shoot that beautiful lory, uncle?” I asked.
“It was in that palm-tree close to us, Nat,” he replied; “and now, while we are waiting, I’ll put together a few boxes and the butterfly-nets and the cyanide bottle, ready for a start directly after breakfast.”
“Shall you take the guns, uncle?”
“Only one, Nat, and we’ll carry it in turn,” he replied. “This is to be a butterfly and beetle day, so we will not go far in any direction, but keep within reach of the camp so as to come back for food and rest. It will save us from having to carry provisions.”