“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “When you get ready to leave ’em give ’em a new sarong, a little money, a ticket home, and they’ll bless you forever and maybe cry a little into the bargain because they hate to lose a good thing. In a week or two, though, they will be deep in a new affair and they’ll forget. Don’t let them fall in love, though, or they might get nasty. Best way is to tell ’em you’re going about ten minutes before you leave. It saves a lot of powwow an’ palaver. Otherwise it’ll cost you twice as much to save your face.”
The chiming of eight bells closes the engineer’s dissertation, as he stands watch until four in the afternoon. He leaves us reluctantly, for he regards us as babes in the woods who need much assistance and advice in this very interesting but usually taboo subject. Mayhap he is right, but, as the Englishman says, “We’ll muddle through somehow.” Somehow we can’t quite divest ourselves of our “old-fashioned” ideas.
While we talk over the chief’s code of morals, we wonder about many things. The sort of life he has led has been led by many white men, for four hundred years, in the Indies and every one seems happy and contented. True, there are many brown-skinned people with blue eyes and just as many fair-skinned ones with warm, dancing eyes of sloe black, but on the lips of each and every one of these there is a smile. They seem to know no trouble. The warm air makes us drowsy. Tiffin isn’t till one-thirty: why not take that snooze we planned for?
CHAPTER II
The Paradise-Hunter
It is four o’clock in the afternoon. The ship’s launch is wallowing toward the wharf, carrying with it ourselves and two of the ship’s officers. Moh—our Javanese boy, cook, majordomo, and general nuisance—is busily engaged in gathering our barang together, preparatory to getting it ashore. No one ever thinks of calling baggage anything but “barang” after a few months in Malay waters. We just must show our command of the vernacular and thereby escape classification as common tourists.
As we near the wharf a motley crowd greets us with a variety of expressions. The throng is composed for the most part of Malay-speaking Javanese or Ambonese, but here and there one sees pajama-clad Chinese and over there near the godown, or warehouse, is the white-clad figure of a white man. He is approaching us rapidly. We scramble up the rickety, slippery stairway to the dock and find ourselves in a chattering gang who clamor to be allowed to carry our barang to the passangrahan or resthouse, which in these Dutch possessions is the only shelter available to the stranger. It is maintained by the Government for this purpose and in it one finds every convenience, but one must supply one’s own servants and food.
We arrange with a Chinaman, who seems to be a sort of “straw boss” of the coolies, for the transfer of our luggage, and dismiss the matter from our minds. He will care for it and will not worry us, for the whole bill will not be over two guilders, or about sixty cents. There are twenty-two pieces to be moved. If we cared to argue the matter out we might get the job done for one guilder, but it’s too warm for an argument.
The white-clad figure is close to us now. He evidently is worried about the arrival of something or other that he expects the boat to bring him. He does not notice us, but goes directly to the ship’s officer who is giving orders to the men lightering the cargo ashore. They engage in an animated but good-natured conversation. Farther down the dock a scuffle is taking place. The crowd thins out rapidly, and we can glimpse the combatants now and then between the intervening onlookers. They are slashing at each other with knives and whole-souled abandon. They are Malay stevedores. From the lower end of the mole a grotesque native policeman espies the affray and shouts to the battlers to desist,—this with wild waving of his arms and dire threats of punishment. His shrill admonitions do not seem to have the desired effect, and he suddenly projects himself (that is the only word for it) in the general direction of the mêlée. His old navy cutlass flashes in the waning sunlight as he draws it with a great flourish and comes bouncing down the wharf. The scabbard disconcertingly inserts itself between his legs and he performs an absurd contortion to regain his footing. By miraculous intervention of Providence he maintains his footing and arrives. Smack! smack! and the belligerents depart in opposite directions. The policeman’s cutlass has accomplished its purpose. The fighters have been spanked into peace with the flat of the blade.
As the pair separate a gentle voice beside us is raised in soft-toned remonstrance. It is directed toward the misguided policeman. “Gad, man!” it says, “don’t stop ’em; let ’em fight.” Then turning to us, the speaker continues, “I just love to see the blood fly.” Our jaws drop. We turn to scan the ferocious one and look him over in amazement. Before us is a little man of somewhat uncertain age, clad largely in a huge Vandyke that rambles in a casual fashion over his face. His voice is soft, soft as a girl’s, and his eyes as we look into them lose their bloodthirsty, anticipatory glint, and sparkle with kindliness and good-fellowship.
