“Little Playmate” readjusts his nose-tubes
Our own meals Moh serves beneath the protecting klambu, which encloses within its spacious tent-like interior our camp table and several folding-chairs. The large gasolene lamp, which is a continual source of wonder to the natives, lights the camp with almost daytime brilliance, and we doubly enjoy our dinner in the cool, refreshing air of early evening.
During the month of February it grows dark shortly after six in Kia Kia Land. As we are continuing the night sentry duty, which entails somewhat broken slumber, the one of us who takes second watch turns in after an after-dinner pipe, while the other mounts guard and for want of better company talks to Moh until that worthy has finished with the dishes. His fears are slowly diminishing, which fact we ascribe in part to the eyes one of the dusky maidens has cast upon him. We have, however, stopped the incipient affair with threats of dire punishment. Moh has a large respect for our ability to punish and dutifully refrains from returning the amorous glances of the charmer, who finds it convenient to pass the cook-tent every now and then. To complicate matters, she speaks a little Malay. As we keep Moh near us at all times, there is little to fear and we warn him of how her Kia Kia “husband” will prepare him for the roasting-pit without interference from us. Moh tells us volubly how much he loves his bagoose prempuan in Jahwa (Java), and we listen with amused tolerance. The Malay does not live that is not susceptible to the charms of the gentler sex, and Moh is no exception.
There is a young moon, and as it rises from the palms that fringe the point that stretches seaward on the left of our camp the dogs gather in what seems to be an indignation meeting. Their howling makes the night hideous. There must be fully a hundred in the pack and each is trying to outdo the others in the most soul-rasping, blood-curdling oratorio imaginable. This is a nightly occurrence whenever there is a moon and is one of the things that linger long in the memory. In no other place in the world, it seems to us, have we ever heard the equal of these Kia Kia dogs. Their howls might be the wails of long-departed spirits in mourning over their untimely demise and subsequent place upon the menu.
CHAPTER IX
The Story of the Swiss Scientist
With the passing of the days our hosts forget the gloom caused by the death of the old man and resume their usual laughing, care-free demeanor, much to our relief. They spend hours in the shade of our tent, during which time we pick up many of their words,—enough, in fact, to enable us to converse in a limited way with them. Curiously intermingled with the pure words of their somewhat limited vocabulary are many of either pure Malay or Malayan derivation, and the presence of these, we find, helps us greatly.
The hairdresser plaits long strands of raffia into the kinky wool of the Kia Kias
