Now he must sell the monkey to the great Tuan, or Lord, that the money might help take him to Mecca. The monkey must dance well and please the mighty Tuan.
As the little fellow danced, he kept one eye on me as though he understood it all.
“How old is he?” I asked, becoming interested.
“Just as old as your Excellency would like,” he replied, bowing.
“Is he a year old?”
“If the Tuan please.”
“Well, how much do you want for him?”
“What your Excellency can give.”
“Twenty-five dollars?” I asked.
His face lit up from chin to forehead. He hitched nervously at the folds of his sarong, and changed the quid of red betel-nut from one corner of his mouth to the other.