“But do you not pray to that spirit?” The native girl’s brow wrinkled. “Do you not—”
“Look!” Doris gripped her arm. “He leaped away over there. He—he’s gone!”
By the time Johnny caught up with them, the monkey, by a succession of tree races and wild flying leaps, had led the girls down a precipitous slope to a spot where a rocky ledge hanging over a drop of some fifty feet brought their race and the monkey’s to an end.
The monkey climbed out on a branch that appeared to hang over a precipice. He seemed at first to contemplate a flying leap to the top of a tall tree that grew on the lower slope. This would have proven a thrilling spectacle. Doris caught her breath as he hung there by one foot, looking down. The distance was thirty feet or more, a straight drop down. Would he do it? Dared he?
“Oh!” she said gripping at her breast. “If he dares we will never see him again.”
Apparently Mr. Monk did not dare, for in time he drew himself up to a position of safety, then began polishing the glistening stone mounting of the ring with the furry back of his right hand.
From time to time he would pause to give the girls a knowing look and wink as if to say:
“See! Doesn’t it shine? Don’t you wish you had it?”
In good time Johnny caught up with them. They were delighted to see that his arms were filled with small ripe bananas.
“They are really good,” he said, slipping the last bite of one in his mouth. “Ripened in the shade.”