106 IN MALAY FOKESTS. 



have-been" somewhat deadened in the comparative 

 success of the day, Saleh found a fit time to make 

 his apologies and excuses. 



"I could not help it," he explained; "when your 

 gun said rap, my gun had to say rap too. It would 

 not be resisted. I was wrong, and any punishment 

 that is inflicted I will undergo. But but I did it 

 because I could not help it." 



The appeal was irresistible: not that I had any 

 desire to resist it, and we made friends again. The 

 Malays produced their inevitable cigarettes coarse 

 Java-grown tobaccco, wrapt in the inner skin of a 

 palm-leaf, and we sat down to discuss the points 

 of the dead animal. They both considered it a matter 

 for congratulation that I had shot this young bull 

 rather than the old patriarch. To soothe any bitter- 

 ness that they imagined might, despite the final 

 success, still remain at the thought of the preceding 

 failure, they explained to one another, for my benefit, 

 that the flesh of the old bull would have been far too 

 tough. This animal was exactly right, just young 

 enough to be still tender, and just big enough to 

 provide meat for every one. Of course, there would 

 have been more to eat on the old one, but without 

 doubt things were far better as they were. The 

 difference in the size of the trophies did not enter 

 into their calculations, but the memory haunted me 

 of those grand horns and that massive head. 



Saleh turned the conversation to the subject of the 

 charm of the folded leaves, and having, with all the 

 deftness of a folk-lorist stalking a folk-tale, invited 

 my confidence by telling me all about its meaning, 



