“It didn’t skeer me a bit,” he said, “queer as I feel; but, between men—you see how bad my poor officer is—I only want you to keep those jockeys of yours quiet. Well, aren’t you going to say anything when a English gentleman addresses you?”
The Malay gazed at him as if wondering at the lad’s impudence, and then, scowling fiercely, he said, in a hoarse, guttural way, and trying to display his scorn for the sun-burnt, thin-featured lad, “Ingles—Ingles!”
“That’s right, comrade—I mean, enemy. Well, ain’t you going to say any more?”
The man made no sign, and Peter Pegg continued:
“Can’t you understand plain English? Well, then, take this—apa boleh booat.”
“Apa boleh booat,” said the Malay, with his face relaxing a little; and he nodded his head slowly, before turning to one of his followers and pointing to the big water-jar standing near the door, which the man immediately took up and bore out as if to fill, while his leader pointed again to a neatly woven bamboo basket in which lay three or four bananas and a half-eaten cake of bread.
This too was borne out, the contents sent flying amongst the trees close by, and the basket brought back, like the big jar, replenished.
“Apa boleh booat,” growled the big Malay, and he bowed his head slowly at the young soldier.
“All right; I quite agree with you,” said Peter; “and now good-morning, or good-day, and don’t come and bother me any more, my Royal Highness, or whatever you are, for I want to think.”
The Malay leader scowled at him again, and then followed his men out of the door, which was closed loudly, and as heavy bars seemed to be fitted into sockets, Peter Pegg limped up, as if partly lamed, put his lips close to a crack, and whispered: