The native lieutenant evinced a strong curiosity to know what errand had brought us thus far from the beaten track of sahibs, and our pantomimic explanation seemed only to increase his suspicions. When he grew querulous we mentioned the name of Damalaku. He sprang to his feet shrieking with delight, and, having danced about us for some time, detailed a sepoy to accompany us to the first Siamese village, with a note of explanation to the head man.
When the sun had begun its decline and the latest storm had abated, we left the barracks and Burma behind. The international stream was little wider than many we had already encountered, and barely waist deep. We forded it easily, and the tinkling of the pagoda bells still came faintly to our ears when we climbed the sandy eastern bank,—in Siam at last.
The first village, we had gathered, was no great distance off, so we strolled leisurely on through the jungle, pausing to rest in shady thickets so often that the sepoy left us in disgust and went on alone. Two hours later he paused on his homeward journey to tell us in gestures that he had delivered his international note and that the village was waiting to receive us.
The day was not yet done when we reached the outpost of Siam, to be picked up at the edge of the jungle by a Siamese of ape-like mien, who conducted us to the hut of the village head man.
Picture to yourself a trust magnate of the most pompous and self-worshiping type, with the face of an Alaskan totem pole, the general appearance of a side-show “wild man,” a skin the color of a door mat that has done service for many years, dressed in a cast-off dish cloth, and you have an exact visualization of the man who ruled over Mäsawt. He received us in the “city hall,” sitting with folded legs on a grass mat in the middle of the floor. Around the walls of the misshapen bamboo shack squatted several briefly-attired courtiers. Through the network partition that separated the hall of ceremonies from the family sanctum, peered a parchment-skinned female, and a troop of dusky children not yet arrived at the dignity of clothing. If we had waited for an invitation to be seated we might have remained standing all night. The attitude of the Siamese towards the European is quite different from that of the Burman. Their very poise seems to say:—“We are a free people, not the slaves of white men like our neighbors over the border.”
We made ourselves comfortable on the pliant floor, with our backs to the wall, and lighted the saybullies that had done service for three days past. For more than an hour the head man and his satellites sat motionless, staring fixedly at us, and mumbling in an undertone without once turning their heads towards those they were addressing. The sun sank into the jungle and swift darkness fell. The parchment-skinned female drifted into the room and set on the floor an oil torch that gave a poor imitation of a light. At the dictation of the babu of Thenganyenam, I had jotted down a few vital words of Siamese. When conversation lagged, I put this newly-acquired vocabulary to the test by calling for food. The head man growled, the female floated in once more and placed at our feet a small washtub of boiled rice.
Now this Oriental staff of life is not without its virtues; but to eat one’s fill of the tasteless stuff without any “trimmings” whatever is rather a pleasureless task. I dragged out my notebook and again ran my eyes down the list of Siamese words. Neither currie nor chicken was represented. The only word that appeared to be of any value under the circumstances was that for “sugar.” I bellowed it at the head man. He stared open-mouthed until I had repeated it several times.
“Sugar?” he echoed, with an inflection of interrogation and astonishment.
“Yes, sugar,” I cried, sprinkling an imaginary handful over the rice.
The councillors gazed at each other with wondering eyes, and the word passed from mouth to mouth—“sugar?”