Nivin might have explained these matters, but he had omitted so to do, and Tunstal's was the sheer delight of discovery.
"Stengah," he observed, reaching for the bottle. "Manti dooloo!"
The waxen gentleman looked a trifle more intelligent than an eggplant. Evidently his island Malay was not up to the classical standard. Tunstal tried him in fragmentary Dutch to the same effect and with the same result.
"Damn it—I say I want more and never mind taking that bottle away!"
The manikin's face opened.
"Oh, sure. Three dolla' hap'."
On being paid in Singapore silver he vanished into space once more while Tunstal philosophized.
"Too bad about the simple native that has no use for a tourist!"
The garden had fallen to a drowsy hush. Within its four walls only the great red ape stayed to do the honors, and he had subsided, applying himself seriously now to the cigarette industry. He sat cross-legged, workmanlike, with a bobbing of his ugly head and a ridiculous curling tongue above the delicate task. Selecting a leaf of the natural weed and adding a pinch for filler, he would somehow twist the spill and nip under the ends with flying fingers. Curious fingers he had—long and black and muscular—sinister talons that yet were nimble enough to trick the eye. It was amazing to watch him. As if a fiend from the pit had been trained to do featherstitch!