Chapter Eight.
A Hungry Croc.
The next moment Ned stood with clenched fists, about to fly at the Tumongong’s son, as he had mentally dubbed him, but his fists unclenched, and he began to comprehend that he must have been in some danger from which he had been driven and dragged by the excited lad, who now snatched off the little flat military-looking cap he wore, and showed a crop of curly dark hair—not black, coarse, and straight like a Malay’s—and as he wiped his streaming forehead with the silken sleeve of his baju, he cried fiercely: “What a jolly fool you must be to go and stand there.”
“Eh? I? Was I? Would the monkey have bitten me?”
“Yes, if you had pulled his tail, and he wouldn’t have let you. He bitten you? No.”
“Then,” said Ned, flushing a little, and feeling indignant at the young semi-savage’s dictatorial speech, “why was I a jolly fool to go and stand there, pray?”
“Hark at him!” said the lad, looking round as if he were addressing an audience; “he says, Why was he a jolly fool? Oh, what a green one you are!”
“Look here, sir,” said Ned, shortly; “have the goodness to be a little more respectful in your speech. I am not accustomed to be addressed in that manner.”
“Oh certainly, my lord,” said the lad. “Salaam maharajah, salaam.” And raising his hands above his head, he bowed down almost to the ground. “I didn’t know you were such a grandee.”