Rob looked confused. Nelly came to his rescue.
"He doesn't mean that he likes Malacca, sir," she said: "only that he likes to hear about strange countries,—any countries."
"Ach!" said Mr. Kleesman: "I see. He vill be one explorer."
"Indeed I will that!" said Rob. "Just as soon as I'm a man I'm going all round this world."
Mr. Kleesman had lived ten years in Malacca. He had been in charge of tin mines there. He was an artist too, this queer old gentleman; and he had painted a great many small pictures of things and places he saw there. These he kept in an old leather portfolio, on a shelf above his bed. This portfolio he now took down, and spread the pictures out on the bed, for Rob and Nelly to look at. There was a picture of the house he lived in while he was in Malacca. It was built of bamboo sticks and rattan, and looked like a little toy house. There was a picture of one of the queer boats a great many of the Malay people live in. Think of that: live in a boat all the time, and never have a house on land at all. These boats are about twenty feet long, and quite narrow; at one end they have a fireplace, and at the other end their bedroom. The bedroom is nothing but a mat spread over four poles; and under this mat the whole family sits by day and sleeps by night. They move about from river to river, and live on fish, and on wild roots which they dig on the banks of the rivers.
"My servant lif in that boat," said Mr. Kleesman. "He take wife, and go lif in a boat. His name Jinghi. I write it for you in Malay."
Then Mr. Kleesman wrote on a piece of paper some queer characters, which Nelly said looked just like the letters on tea-chests.
"Could you write my name in Malay?" asked Nelly, timidly.
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Kleesman: "I write." And he handed Nelly a card with the following marks on it:—
