There it would stick, well out of reach of the soldier who played showman, till the spectators were turned out of the yard, when it would suddenly snatch its head out of its nook, turning it sharply to look down and listen, keeping quite motionless and on the qui vive to hide itself ostrich fashion if there was another sound; but if not, it would hold on by the two bamboos with all four hands and shake them savagely, making them rattle again, snarling and chattering savagely at its fellow-prisoner, and snapping its sharp ivory trap-jaws as if to show how it would bite if it had a chance, before uttering its favourite cry, tchack!
“Poor old chap!” Stan always said. “I should like to see you get loose among them.”
No sooner had he spoken than the quaint-looking little creature loosened its hold slightly and slid down the two bars, to squat at the bottom and thrust one hand into Stan’s compartment, reaching in as far as possible for it to be taken, when it held on tightly, drooping its head as if enjoying the sympathy shown for it. But not for long. Suddenly drawing its hand back, it began to trot like a dog about its cage, to keep on picking up, examining, and smelling the scraps of food and fruit that had been thrown in by the people, stopping to eat some tempting piece, before scrambling up the bars again to the corner nearest the front, where the cracking and tearing noise went on again in the part of the cage beyond the reach of Stan’s eyes.
There had been more visitors than usual, with a fresh jailer to play the part of showman, and while some of the people stood gaping stupidly at Stan, the monkey was hunted about till those who watched it were tired, when it took refuge out of reach, refusing to come down.
Upon this the party shifted their attention to Stan, joining the rest in their miserably stupid, gaping stare, which exasperated the lad into imitating the monkey’s tactics and turning his back in the far corner, but of course on the floor.
Instead of doing good, Stan found it result in harm, for a most irritating form of annoyance began, the people beginning to take aim and pelt him with oranges, bananas, and pieces of bread-cake; all of which the prisoner, who was simmering with wrath, ignored, declining to make a spectacle of himself, and remaining quite motionless till he felt a heavy dig in his back.
This made him turn sharply, to find that his fresh custodian was reaching in as far as he could, holding his spear by the extreme end of the shaft, and poking at him with his cheek close against the bars and one hand extended to the full extent of his arm.
“Beast!” growled Stan, with a jerk forward, as he flung out his arm; and the next moment, as much to his own surprise as to that of his jailer, he had caught hold of the spear-head and jerked the weapon out of the man’s hand.
The little crowd uttered a yell of delight and excitement, while the soldier burst forth into a torrent of bad—Chinese—language, leaping about, shaking his fist at the prisoner, and evidently threatening what he would do if the spear was not handed back on the instant.
But this last affront had made Stan regularly boil over, and a fresh yell came in chorus from the crowd as they saw him swing the spear round to make a thrust at the owner, who shrieked aloud as he darted back, while the swift drawing of the spear-shaft across the bamboos made every one in the yard utter a yell of dismay and begin tumbling one over the other to reach the yard door; an example followed by the gallant warrior, whose speed was hastened, and who began thumping the backs of those who hindered, when Stan thrust the spear out between the front bars and gave him a few digs in the back.