Chapter II: Part 2

To Malays nothing seems impossible, and it is difficult to hold them down to actual facts. They will hedge about with "I think" and "_bârang-kâli_ (perhaps)" until you give up in disgust; and then they will offer to bring their brothers or other relatives, who will repeat the performance. Sometimes I used to spend hours in wondering how their minds worked, and I came to the conclusion that they talk merely with a desire to please. They want to tell anything you want to hear, regardless of whether it is true or not. It is exasperating and occasionally funny. For instance, several years after I left Sumatra, I was traveling through the jungle, looking for elephants. At one village I talked with the Malay headman, who represented the government in that locality, and the conversation turned to large elephants. Jumbo, who was eleven feet two inches, had died, and I had it in my mind that I should like to find an animal big enough to take his place. "Have you ever seen a twelve-foot elephant?" I asked the headman. And as quick as a flash, he answered, "How many do you want?" He could not understand why I rolled back on the floor and laughed until my jaws ached. The headman was a true Malay.

I found it best, in trying to get information from a Malay, to ask my question and then, before he had a chance to speak, say: "_Jângan fîkir--jawâb ya tîdak_. _Sahya bûlih fîkir_. (Don't think--answer yes or no. I'll do the thinking)." Then he would generally admit immediately that he didn't know, but he would always offer to bring his brother or some other person that he thought might know. It is a trait that makes business relations between the whites and the natives difficult, and is to a large degree responsible for the fact that much of the business in the Archipelago is done through the Chinese. The Chinese have sufficient patience and understanding to deal with the Malays, and they know how to make them work.

There are two distinct classes of Malay: the _Orang Ulu_, living in the jungle, and the _Orang Laut_, living on the coast. Through their association with the Chinese merchants, some of the latter develop into clever dealers, but for the most part they are content to spend their lives in loafing. They work when they need money, but they need so little of it that they can afford to idle along through life. When the supply of food runs low, they put out in their boats at daybreak and return at sundown with fish. These are sorted and left to dry, afterward sorted again, according to their market value, and sold to the Chinese, who ship them in palm-leaf baskets to Singapore. Then the Malays have finished their work for another month or so. Often the merchant advances money for future delivery, and the Malays find themselves obliged to work for long periods to keep from being punished for debt. That is a favorite method of making them work. They consider themselves gentlemen and despise the Chinese as pig-eating heathens. If they must submit to working for the Chinese merchants, they have the satisfaction of watching the coolies do most of the hard labor while they spend their days at games.

The day's routine while I stayed in Palembang with the old hadji was simple and pleasant. I lived with him and his first wife--he had three others. We rose early and went for a swim in the river, and then, squatting on the floor and eating with our fingers, we breakfasted on fish and rice. After breakfast, the hadji and I would stretch out on our mats and smoke and talk until my servant came to prepare my lunch. A Malay eats but two meals a day--always rice and fish--but I found that two weren't enough for me. After lunch I slept through the heat of the day, with the thermometer climbing up to about 125°. Then, when evening came, Palembang stirred into life.

The Malays liked games and they were continually after me to show them some new kind of kindergarten pastime. It made no difference whether it was tag or diving into buckets of treacle after money; if it was a game, they liked it. Some of them knew how to play chess and they gave whole days and nights to it. They are especially fond of gambling, and they repeatedly lose all their money and borrow from the kind merchant, with the result that, to make good their debts, they spend weeks in fishing.

Occasionally I went to the Dutch quarter to seek a few hours of companionship with white people, but I got little satisfaction out of these visits because I could speak better Malay than Dutch, and at Palambang there were few people who knew English. The white people could not understand why I preferred living with the natives, and some of them looked down on me for it. However, that fact did not trouble me, because I knew what I wanted and I was on the way to getting it. With the hadji I learned the Malay language rapidly, and before long I knew the natives far better than the average white man who goes to work in the Archipelago. For the most part, the whites make no effort to understand them and are thus largely responsible for the troubles that arise. In recent years, the attitude of the colonial governments has changed for the better and there have been fewer disturbances.

The natives came to have confidence in me, especially after the capture of the python, and accepted me as a friend. Often during the evening, when the hadji and I sat talking on the veranda, thirty or forty natives would squat near us, listening to the conversation. If the hadji or I cracked a joke, they would laugh uproariously--not that they understood what had been said, but simply because they wanted to do the proper thing.

The hadji's nephew, Ali, became my devoted servant. He was about twenty years old and far more intelligent than the average; also he was brave and resourceful--qualities that made him my most valuable aid until he was killed during one of our expeditions several years later.

When I went to Singapore with the python, I took Ali with me, and for weeks after, he entertained the natives of Palembang--and me--with his stories of what he had seen and done. It was an excellent example of the feats that Malay imagination can perform.

In Singapore I found an agent of Cross, of Liverpool, of whom I have spoken, and sold the snake to him for $300 (Mexican), which was considered a banner price. I was glad to have the opportunity of making myself known to the agent, because I foresaw future commissions. He, like many others, was tired of doing business with Mahommed Ariff, who took every possible advantage of his customers, and he was pleased to find a white man in the field of collecting.

We re-crated the python and shipped him off to Liverpool, after feeding him twelve ducks each day for five days. With that stomachful, he could last out the entire voyage and arrive in England with a good appetite.

It was difficult to get the Malays from the coast to go up into the jungle. They fear it and have superstitions about the _hantu_ that live there. Most of the men refused point-blank when I asked them to accompany me, and others thought of various things they had to do at Palembang. Ali was willing, however, and he developed into an expert jungle-man. Boatmen from the coast poled us up the rivers, but they returned to the coast immediately because they were unwilling to remain away from their families.

It was after my return to Palembang that I became acquainted with the inland of Sumatra and with the Orang Ulu, who are quite different from their brothers on the coast. They are more industrious and have not lost their simplicity and honesty by coming into contact with Chinese business methods. They received us kindly and I had no difficulty in making friends with them. During the next year I spent much of my time inland, in hunting and fishing, and I discovered that Sumatra was not the field for collecting that I had expected it to be. But it served my purposes of learning the language and becoming acquainted with the people quite as well as any other part of the Archipelago would have done; and I was too busy studying jungle-craft from the Orang Ulu to think of leaving. Ali, who was always with me, was an invaluable aid. He was a first-rate spear-thrower, but he wanted to be a good shot. He took great pride in my 50-110 express gun, which he carried behind me. He had a trait peculiar in Malays--he was always busy. And he spent a great deal of his energy in cleaning and polishing the gun, hoping for the great reward of being allowed to shoot it. Eventually he became a good marksman. The other servant who accompanied me on my trips into the jungle was a Chinese coolie. He had been my rickshaw boy and I promoted him to the position of cook and store-keeper. Ali was intensely jealous of him but they worked well together.

Though the natives made a sport of spear-throwing, they had given over that method of hunting. They were armed with guns that I honestly believe dated back to Revolutionary times--old, muzzle-loading flintlocks. Where they got them I have never been able to discover. They were fascinated by my 50-110, of course, and, when Ali cleaned it, they squatted about him, wide-eyed. Whenever I saw a native about to shoot his old muzzle-loader, I yelled to him to wait until I got well behind, because the thing sometimes exploded. It was a wonder to me that it didn't always explode. Except when he was after small game, a native loaded his gun nearly to the end of the muzzle with powder before putting in the wads and a huge slug of metal. When he pulled the trigger, he closed his eyes and flinched because the recoil always knocked him flat. But he expected that and cheerfully picked himself up from the ground with the question, "Did I hit it?" And often he did hit it--if the barrel did not explode. I have seen some of the natives with ordinary iron pipe fitted on their guns to replace the barrels that had not been able to stand the strain.

I learned in the jungle that the hunter must always be on the lookout for the unexpected. At first it was difficult for me to distinguish between all the sights and sounds and to interpret each of them, but I soon learned under the tuition of the natives. One great danger came from the leopards, both spotted and black, who lie along the limbs of trees and spring without warning. A tiger slinks away when disturbed in the daytime, but a leopard almost always stands his ground and springs as one passes beneath him. And he can do more biting and scratching in one minute than a tiger can in three or four minutes.

Ali's alertness saved me one day from a terrible mauling, if not from death. We were breaking through the jungle on our way to some traps; Ali shouted and pushed me to one side, shoving my gun into my hands. I looked up, setting my gun, just as a black leopard sprang. Ali's spear whizzed by my head, I fired, catching the animal in mid-air squarely in the chest with an explosive bullet. Ali's spear hit him in the side. I took it as a good lesson in carefulness. It was well enough to be on the alert for the animal I was trailing, but it was also important to be on the alert for the animal that might be trailing me.

A favorite native method of hunting is with birdlime, which is a mucilage made from the gum of a tree. In catching tigers or leopards, the hunter spreads out the birdlime where they will pass and carefully covers it with leaves. Immediately after a cat animal has put his foot in the stuff, he becomes so enraged and helpless that he is easily captured. It is very much like putting butter on a house cat's paws to keep him busy until he becomes accustomed to a new home. The tiger or leopard that steps in birdlime doesn't step gracefully out of it and run away; he tries to bite the stuff from his feet and then he gets it on his face. When he tries to rub it off, he plasters it over his eyes. Finally, when he is thoroughly covered with it, he is so helpless that without much danger he can be put into a cage; and there he spends weeks in working patiently to remove the gum from his fur. Birds and monkeys are captured in birdlime smeared on the limbs of trees; they stay in it until some one goes up and pulls them out.

Another way of capturing small monkeys is by means of a sweetened rag in a bottle. The bottle is covered with green rattan and tied to a tree. The monkey puts his hand through the neck and grabs the rag. He cannot pull his hand out while it is doubled up with the rag in it, and he hasn't sense enough to let go. There he sticks, fighting with the bottle, until the hunter comes along and, by pressing the nerves in his elbow, forces him to open his hand and leave the rag for the next monkey.

We snared and trapped many small animals and occasionally built pit-traps for tapirs. The natives sometimes used pits for marsh elephants, but I have never seen elephants captured in them without being injured. They are so heavy that they hurt themselves in falling.

The marsh elephants in Sumatra are not worth the trouble of capturing, since they are weaker, shorter lived and less intelligent than the other breeds. They bring a low price, and consequently only the babies, which can be handled and transported easily, ever reach the market. The usual procedure among the natives is to shoot the mother and take the baby. It is little like the real game of elephant hunting as I found it later in Trengganu and Siam.

Dynamiting for fish is a great sport among the Malays. It is done, of course, with the maximum chatter and excitement. The natives line the banks of the stream while the dynamite is dropped; then they rush off, some in boats and some of them swimming, to collect the fish that come to the surface.

Drugging fish is another method of capturing them wholesale without much trouble or work. For this purpose the natives use a mixture of lime and the sap from the roots of a tuba tree. They first warn the villages down-stream so that the people will not drink any of the water; then they pour out the white liquid. It spreads over the stream, making the fish _mâbok_ (drunk), as the Malays say. They rise to the surface and are gathered into boats.

Except for such annoyances as insects and leeches, which fastened on my skin as I walked through the jungle, those days in Sumatra were delightful. We hunted, fished and played games; there was nothing to worry about and little work to do. I was accepted by the natives as one of them. I wore a _sârong_ over my trousers, and I shouldn't have worn the trousers if my skin had not been so sensitive to the insects. And, of course, I had shoes--the great barrier between castes. The Malays of the coast towns sometimes, but not often, wear shoes, and even then it is more a matter of showing-off than of being comfortable. I did everything possible to minimize the differences between us because I wanted to know them as they were, not as they thought I wanted them to be. They rapidly lost their self-consciousness and treated me simply as a companion who knew more than they knew--and who had a wonderful gun and a kit of medicine.

In jungle countries white men are always supposed to possess great knowledge of medicines and curing, and I was often called upon to act as doctor. At first the Malays showed some hesitancy at accepting the _ôrang pûteh ûbat_ (the white man's medicine), but gradually they became less shy. During my circus days I had acquired a knowledge of first-aid work, and in the jungle I became quite proficient in patching people up. They believed that most ailments could be cured by their own doctors, who heal by magic, but they were glad to have me prescribe for them when magic failed to work.

The Malay doctor is supposed to be favored by a spirit, and a _bâtu bintang_ (star stone) is given to him while he sleeps. In other words, he is made and not born a doctor. His bâtu bintang is just one of the charms with which he effects cures. He has a bâtu that is a petrified part of a Sembilan fish. Water in which this has been soaked is given to the patient to drink or is rubbed on the part affected. Other charms are the _bâtu lintar_ (thunderbolt), which is rubbed wherever pain is felt; another bâtu, also a thunderbolt, which is a piece of crystal; a bâtu that is part of the backbone of some animal; one that is another piece of crystal; and, finally, the pelican stone. This last is the most highly prized of all. It secures the magic presence and coöperation of a spirit that dwells in the pelican. When the doctor is seeking to enter the spirit world in search of the soul of the sick person, this spirit ensures to him a swift passage there and back. The crystal stone is indispensable in discovering where the wandering soul of the sick person is in hiding and for detecting the spirit who is causing the sickness. And the backbone bâtu cures dysentery, indigestion and consumption.

In practicing medicine for the benefit of the natives, I worked out one theory in regard to leprosy, which is a fairly common ailment in the Archipelago. I asked myself why, since a snake sheds its skin, a man who is afflicted with disease should not be able to do the same thing.

In Singapore there was a rich Chinese leper, known as Ong Si Chou, who asked me repeatedly why I did not bring him some new remedy for his disease. Since he had a large household of servants who took care of him, and his own carriages and rickshaws when he traveled, he was allowed to live untroubled by the authorities; but he was very unhappy, because he had tried all the remedies of the native doctors and was steadily growing worse. At last I told him that I had something that might help. He asked me what it was but I would not tell him. When he insisted, I answered, "Snakes."

"Uh-la!" he exclaimed, waving his arms in the air. Then I explained my theory. The ability of a snake to shed his skin might be transferred to a human being if he ate snakes; and if so, the person would be able to shed his leprosy. Ong Si Chou did not care for the idea at all, but I told him it was worth trying and I argued that a snake is much cleaner than an eel. At last he consented, and I furnished him with a number of small pythons, with the instructions that they were to be killed and cleaned immediately before they were eaten. He was to eat them raw with his rice.

I left Singapore soon after that, and, when I returned, I found that Ong Si Chou had died. People thought it was a great joke on me because my patient had not survived the treatment, but I am far from being convinced that the cure will not work--or, at least, help to throw off leprosy. Ong Si Chou was in the last stages of the disease, and his case was not a fair test.

After living eighteen months with the Malays in Sumatra, I decided that I was well enough equipped to leave and begin the work of collecting wherever I could find the animals I wanted, I went to Singapore and found that Ariff had been maligning me to his heart's content I called upon him to see what he had to say for himself and he prophesied dismal failure for all my plans. However, I engaged passage on a coast steamer going northward, and stopped off at Kelantan, Patani and Singgora, in Lower Siam. At those places I gathered all the information I could about animals and made myself known to dealers. I wanted to make trips to the interior, but to do so I needed a special permit from Bangkok. Instead, I made agreements with all the dealers that they were to send their animals to me, and arranged with the captains and chinchus of the coast-boats for the transportation of the crates. By offering to pay the freight and give them a fair share of the profit, I cut off a large part of Ariff's business.

On my return to Singapore, I found a letter from the director of the Melbourne Zoölogical Society, suggesting that I come to Australia with a consignment of animals. A few weeks later I arrived at Melbourne with a black leopard, twenty-five small monkeys, two small orang-outangs, a pair of civet cats and numerous other animals. Mr. La Souef, the director, and his son, who had just been appointed director of the zoölogical gardens at Perth, met me at the dock. His son bought the entire consignment. The result of this visit was my appointment as agent of the Australian zoölogical gardens. In return for giving them first call on any animals that came into my hands, I was given a retaining fee. The most important part of the agreement was that the animals were to be shipped f.o.b. Singapore and that I was thus released from all the risks of transportation.

It happened too often that animals died aboard ship, after weeks had been spent in capturing them and bringing them to port, and this loss was invariably borne by the dealer. Since the agreement with the Australian zoölogical gardens was exactly what I wanted, I returned to Singapore elated. Ariff was crestfallen when he heard the news, and he became more crestfallen when I called on him and told him about the commission I had received from various societies in Australia. I did not want to have him as an enemy, and I foresaw that there would be war between us unless we came to some sort of terms. Consequently, I told him that I wanted to work with him, and that we could do a great deal of business together if he would treat me fairly. He considered the matter for a time, and then, when he saw that I was getting much higher prices for animals than he, he decided that I was right.

One of my Australian commissions was to secure for the New Gardens, at Perth, a pair of tigers--male and female and unrelated. I sent the word out among animal dealers, and, shortly after, I received a cable from a Calcutta dealer named Rutledge, asking me to come at once. I took the next boat to Calcutta and found that there were two tigers up-country near Hazaribagh, a mica mining district about three hundred miles northwest of Calcutta, off the line of the railroad.

I was warned that it was a dangerous country to go through and that the people were thieves. It was suggested to me that I hire a native of the locality to protect me. He would do all the stealing; he could, they told me, but he would prevent the others from stealing.

The trip was made with a retinue of servants, cooks, bearers and runners, each with his own little task. It was my first experience with the caste system, and I was amazed at the number of people I had to take with me. We traveled by the main road for two hundred miles; then by a branch road to a place called Pachamba. The remainder of the trip was made by ox-teams and bearers, along the line of the government rest-houses erected for the use of officials visiting the country.

We stopped at a rest-house about three miles from the village, and I sent the boy on ahead to buy food for us and to get information about the tigers. Then we engaged one of the local natives to act as guide and guard. I was exhausted by the trip and soon after supper I went to sleep.

A few hours after dark, I was awakened by the most unearthly yell I have ever heard. I jumped up and called the boy I had brought from Calcutta. He was trembling with fright and he said that he didn't know what the noise meant. Remembering all the tales I had heard about the people of this district, I ordered the boy to bar the doors and windows and to lay out my guns. I was well armed with automatics and revolvers and I prepared for a battle. Presently there came another yell, answered on all sides of us. With my guns loaded and ready, I sat there waiting. Every few minutes the yell was repeated, and it seemed to be getting closer and closer. At last, however, in spite of it, I fell asleep, exhausted.

I was awakened in the morning by the cook bringing my breakfast and the jingling of the ankle bells of a mail-runner, who was passing the house on his fifteen-mile run. After I had finished eating, the cook returned with the native who had been hired to guard us. The native salaamed and spoke to the boy, who acted as interpreter.

"What is he saying?" I asked the boy.

"He says that he is the head watchman and he wants to know if you slept well with him watching over you." The yells that had kept me up most of the night were the "All's well" of the watchmen. Much to the amazement of the cook and the guard who had come to inquire after my night's rest, I burst out laughing. I laughed so hard that I sat down on the floor and put my head against my knees--I howled.

The guard was given a few rupees and told to keep his watchmen farther away from the house the next night. To this day, when I think of myself sitting up all night, dead tired and fighting off mosquitoes, while my guards became imaginary thieves about to attack me, I laugh.

The headman of the village arrived with several natives and I went with them to inspect the tigers--two beautifully marked animals. I closed the bargain immediately and made arrangements to recage the tigers and haul them by ox-teams to Calcutta.

At Perth the directors of the New Gardens were so pleased with the tigers that they sent me a good bonus for my trouble in securing them. And my story about the thieves of Hazaribagh was the joke of the year.

There came a dearth of good animals at Singapore, and so I determined to go into the state of Trengganu to see what luck I should have at collecting. Trengganu was at that time an independent state and had never been thoroughly explored. The Sultan who ruled over it was unwilling to have white men in the country because he feared that his state might become a protectorate of one of the larger powers. He was wise enough to realize that if a white man entered and committed some such indiscretion as interfering with one of the native women, the white man would be found with a _kris_ stuck into him. And the result would probably be that the white man's government would send soldiers to depose the Sultan and take over the government. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his country, and so he made it a law that foreigners were not allowed.

At Singapore one heard many tales of the wealth of animals in Trengganu, but it was generally conceded that it was impossible for a white man to enter the country. For my part, though I had no idea how to win the Sultan to my way of thinking, I decided that it would be at least as easy as getting a permit to go into Lower Siam. That would have required interviewing H. H. Prince Damerong, brother of the King of Siam and Minister of the Interior, which was no easy matter for so obscure a person as I.

Meanwhile the rumor reached us that an immense herd of elephants was crossing from the State of Pahang into Trengganu, and I made up my mind to act instantly. A roaming herd of elephants is so serious a menace to rice-crops that I thought the Sultan might not object to having the assistance of a foreigner in capturing them. In any event, the chance was worth taking.

With the German captain of a small coast-steamer that called at Trengganu every three weeks, I made arrangements to drop me there. He protested that it was a senseless undertaking; that I wouldn't be allowed to land; that, if I was allowed to land, the Sultan would refuse to see me; that, if the Sultan granted me an interview, he would surely refuse to let me go inland; and that, if he allowed me to go inland, I would be killed by the natives. All the way up the coast, I listened to his arguments, and, when he asked me if I had changed my mind, I answered, "You just put me down on the beach, blow your whistle and go along."

Weeks later, when he returned and asked about me, the natives replied, "Sir, the master is in the jungle catching elephants."

I was on the biggest and most exciting elephant hunt of my life.

III

ELEPHANTS

I waited on the beach at Trengganu for a few minutes, until the German steamer was well out of the way; then I sent my Chinese boy into the village to engage living quarters. He returned presently with the information that a Chinese trader had offered to put me up. Ali and I followed him up the street of the village, with a group of inquisitive natives at our heels.

Soon after I had finished my first meal at the trader's house, a _tunku_ (petty prince) appeared with his followers. The meeting was solemn and formal, and he went through the ritual of inquiring after my health, though I could see that inquisitiveness was gnawing at him. At last he asked bluntly what my object was in coming to Trengganu.

"I have come to see the Sultan on important business."

He told me that it would be impossible for me to see the Sultan and offered to deliver my message. I waved him aside and told him that I must see the Sultan personally.

"Impossible," he replied, and departed in the direction of the palace. The palace was a half-finished, two-story brick dwelling. The Sultan had never been able to gather enough money to have the building completed; but, at that, it was the most imposing house in Trengganu.

An hour later, I started out with Ali and, the Chinese boy for the palace, to pay my respects to the Sultan and make another request for an interview. At the gate I was met by a tunku, who told me that the Sultan would not receive me. I returned to the trader's house and slept through the hot afternoon. When evening came, I went again to the palace and met with the same reception.

Twice a day for the entire week I called at the palace. I appeared to be making no headway, but I had been associated with the Malays long enough to know that the Sultan could not bear the strain much longer. Also, I knew that if I gave a tunku the least inkling of my purpose, all my hopes of hunting in Trengganu would be wrecked.

The Sultan gave in at last; he sent word to the gate that he would receive me, and I was ushered into the "reception room" of the palace. The Sultan, a middle-aged, scholarly-looking man, was waiting for me, with his retinue squatted around him. I gave him my card.

"What is it?" he asked.

"My name," I replied, bowing.

"What country are you from?"

"America."

He looked surprised and asked if I was English, French or Dutch; he thought that all white men must be of one of those races and that America was probably a colony.

Fortunately, I had some maps with me. I spread them on the floor and held a class in geography, with the Sultan and his retinue bending over me, listening intently. The Sultan was as enthusiastic on the subject of America as if he had discovered the country. I told him about our president and how he is elected, about the states and governors and the legislatures and Congress.

At last he lost interest in America and asked why I had come to Trengganu. I told him I had come to trap animals and I wanted his permission. He shook his head and replied that there were no animals in Trengganu.

"If you will send your messengers out," I answered, "you will find that an immense herd of elephants is crossing from Pahang into your country."

"How do you know?"

"I heard." It was a Malay answer, and I could see that he was interested. A roaming herd of elephants is dangerous; it spoils rice crops, terrorizes the natives--and most important of all--reduces the Sultan's income.

He ordered coffee and Malay cakes and plunged into thought. The coffee was muddy and bitter, but I drank it joyfully because I knew the Sultan, being worried, would probably see the wisdom of allowing me to enter his country and capture the elephants. Also I suggested that he would receive a bonus on each animal I captured. He nodded and asked me to come to the palace the next day.

Each day for three weeks I called on him and spent hours in telling him of my travels. And he told me something of the worries of being a Sultan. He was afraid that one of the big powers would establish a protectorate over Trengganu, depose him and reduce his people to slavery. He knew very little of foreigners, but he had come to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to keep them out. What did I think was the best plan? We held long conferences, in which I enlightened him on the ways of white men. The subject of elephant hunting scarcely came into the conversations, but I knew that he had sent messengers out to see if there was any truth in my story about the herd crossing from Pahang. I was slowly winning his confidence; everything depended upon the truth of that rumor I had picked up in Singapore.

Exactly three weeks after our first meeting, he greeted me with the words: "_Tûan châkap bêtul_ (Sir, you spoke the truth)."

"I always speak the truth," I answered, as if I were annoyed. The messengers had returned with the news that the herd had been seen near the Pahang River.

He asked what I proposed to do, and I drew a diagram of the trap I wanted to build. He asked if it would not be a better plan to shoot the big elephants and capture the young. I put stress on the royalty payments he would receive, and thus I won him to my way of thinking.

He assigned his nephew Omar--a tunku--to the duty of assisting me, and gave him full power to force as much labor as we might need. A few days later, Omar and I, accompanied by the Sultan, sailed down the coast to the Pahang. It was a wide, deep river, infested with crocodiles; settlements dotted the banks. At each of these we stopped and called on the headmen to conscript labor.

Since the men had to supply their own food and travel in their own boats, the cost of the expedition was reduced to nothing. We arranged that the men might be replaced by others from their villages, because they were loath to remain long away from their families.

Five days after leaving the capital, we arrived at the place where the herd had been located. We disembarked. There followed two weeks of hunting before we found the spoor that told us we had reached the elephants.

It was dense jungle; undergrowth, creepers and vines bound the trees together. The lack of sunlight and the dense atmosphere made progress slow. Sometimes the task of driving elephants on foot through such country seemed hopeless, but I kept the men at work, hacking out trails with _parangs_--their big knives. The insects were frightful, and we were all covered with bites. I developed fever and went about so "groggy" that I was not at all sure of myself; but huge doses of quinine and the excitement of tracking so large a herd kept me going.

The scouts reported that the herd numbered about one hundred. I assigned fifty men to surround the elephants and keep them moving in a circle within a definite area while we built the stockade.

The work of making the trap was prodigious. Trees, twenty to twenty-five feet in length and a foot and a half in diameter, were cut down and dragged through the jungle for half a mile or more to the spot I had selected. These were planted five feet in the ground and braced by three smaller trees, so that they could stand the enormous pressure of elephants trying to lunge through them. The trap was round--about seventy-five feet in diameter--with two wings, each one hundred feet long, converging to the entrance. After planting and bracing all the posts, we bound them together with heavy ropes made of twisted rattan, and then covered them with vines and leaves. For all this work the natives had no tools except their parangs. It was amazing to see the rapidity with which they cut down the big trees and slashed trails through the jungle. Omar and I were with them constantly, keeping up their enthusiasm and excitement.

In building the trap we took great care not to disturb the jungle through which the elephants were to be driven. Like all jungle animals, elephants can see at night, and there is always the danger of a stampede unless precautions are taken against arousing suspicion. The jungle leading up to the wings was untouched; and the wings and the trap could scarcely be distinguished from the dense growth that surrounded them. In the runway and in the trap the jungle was still standing without injury.

When the stockade was completed, an old Siamese priest offered to perform the ceremony that would bring the blessing of the deity of the jungle upon the drive. A white cock was found and fastened in the center of the trap. The priest selected a hundred men and stationed them near the entrance with fruits and branches of trees; then, with two natives, he withdrew into the jungle. Presently we heard them shouting. They came through the undergrowth, chanting and striking the trees with their spears and parangs. The priest rushed through the runway into the trap and seized the cock. With his knife he severed its head. Then, while the natives joined in a chorus of shouts, he ran about the trap, sprinkling the blood. Instead of coming out through the gate, he crawled between the posts. The ceremony ended, and the natives were ready to begin the hunt.

Word came from the men who were watching that the herd was four miles away. I gathered the natives around me, explained all the details of the drive and assigned men to the various tasks. Then we started in a body to get behind the herd. Every five hundred yards, I stationed a man in a tree to steer the drive.

Driving elephants at night is a slow, trying, dangerous job. It means fighting every foot of the way through dense jungle and keeping up a continual hubbub of tom-toms and shouts. The elephants wish to avoid the noise and they move slowly away from it, crashing through the trees and vines. The men who are directly behind have the easiest time, for they can follow the trails broken by the elephants; those on the side must cut trails with their parangs. No lights can be used, and care must be taken to avoid the little elephants, which roam about, investigating the noise. If they see a man and give the danger-signal, the entire herd stampedes.

When we arrived behind the herd, I spread the men out in a U formation, warning them to make no noise until the signal was given. With Ali standing near me with my express rifle, I waited until darkness came; then I gave the signal and started forward. Ali, Omar, the priest, my Chinese boy and a few others followed along behind me, shouting. The noise was taken up on each side of us, and presently we heard the elephants moving forward, throwing their great hulks against the jungle growths. The night was black, and we stumbled on, guided only by the calls of the men in the trees. Insects swarmed about us, biting until we were frantic. Sometimes the noise on either the left or the right suddenly increased, and we knew that the herd had veered in that direction and that the men were frightening them off.

Dawn came, and we found that we had driven them a mile and a half. It had been exhausting work. I posted guards to watch the herd, and we slept until late in the afternoon. Our bodies were covered with welts from insect bites and the sting of nettles and were torn and scratched by the sharp vines; and I was throbbing with the fever. When darkness came again, it seemed to me that the enterprise was all a wild nightmare.

Early the next day the stampede hit us without warning. A small elephant, straying from the herd, saw some of the men on the right; he ran back, trumpeting the danger. Then the bellowing herd came down upon us.

Ali shoved my rifle into my hands and I jumped behind a tree. The Siamese priest stumbled and fell. Before I could shoot, a big bull elephant stepped on him and tore him in two, throwing the upper portion of his body over my head. I was spattered with blood. Elephants, bellowing furiously, rushed past us; men screamed and scrambled for places of safety. The immense animals loomed up in the darkness for a second and then disappeared. In their excitement some collided with trees.

There was no need to shoot; it would have been like holding up a fan to fend off a cyclone. I hugged my tree, keeping my gun in position. I was discouraged; our efforts had been wasted and the herd was scattered. That would be a fine story to take back to the Sultan.

When the elephants had passed, I called to the men. We lighted torches and searched for the injured. Three had been killed and twelve hurt, and I was thankful there weren't more casualties. We buried the dead. Ali brought up my medical kit and helped me dress the wounds.

After a few hours' sleep, I found that I wasn't quite so discouraged, and so I called the men together and lectured them on the necessity of being careful. They showed no signs of mutiny, and so we started off again in search of the herd. It was not difficult to find them, for they cut a swath in the jungle to the point where they stopped, five miles from the scene of the stampede.

Again I posted guides in the trees and spread out the drivers. Every man was alert, and, when night ended, we were considerably nearer the trap. In the minds of the elephants there seemed to be no connection between the noise that was driving them and the men they had seen the night before, and they went ahead peaceably.

Leaving scouts to watch the herd, I gathered the men together and praised them. Success rekindled the enthusiasm that had been damped by the stampede, and, when we threw ourselves down to snatch a few hours' sleep, we were convinced that the drive would proceed without trouble. The scouts reported that the herd was slightly depleted, but, even so, it was the largest herd that any of us had ever seen, much less driven.

At nightfall, each day, the men were again in position, waiting for my signal; and, three nights later, we approached the stockade. The men went wild with delight. And above the uproar, I could hear the calls of the guides in the trees, telling us our distance from the trap.

The big beasts jammed in the runway between the wings, heaving and struggling, and forcing those ahead of them into the trap. The walls of the wings groaned as they threw their bodies against the posts. The elephants bellowed, and the natives kept up a continual pandemonium. I mounted the platform and looked down; I could see nothing but a tossing flood of black that poured slowly from the runway into the trap.

When the last elephant was inside, the ropes that held the gate were cut. The gate crashed down; bars were run through the sockets; the elephants were trapped.

On my platform I shouted as loudly as any of the Malays. Torches were lighted and the men began dancing. I slipped to the ground and warned them against climbing up on the walls of the stockade, for I was fearful that the sight of men might enrage the elephants. If the beasts suddenly took it into their heads to charge the wall in a body, some of the posts might give way. I could hear them milling around inside the trap, bellowing and tearing up the jungle in an effort to find a way out. Through the remainder of the night the natives danced, ate and drank. Then, when dawn was beginning to light up the sky, I climbed to the platform again and looked down into the trap. There were sixty elephants!

The men, armed with long, spiked poles, mounted to the running platform on the top of the posts, and the celebration was renewed. I stood there, breathless, wondering how many of them, in their excitement, would fall off the platform into the trap. But none did fall, and they fended off the charges of the elephants by sticking them in the heads and bodies with their spikes.

Omar immediately sent a messenger to the Sultan with the good news, and the word passed from village to village. Natives poured in to inspect the catch, and the messenger returned with the news that the Sultan was on his way. It was a historic occasion in Trengganu. The Sultan had never been in the interior of his own country before, and never had there been such an elephant hunt in the state. Omar busied himself with the details of the royal reception while I cared for the catch.

We cut holes in the rattan webbing between the posts and enticed the small elephants to come out. There were several babies in the lot, and they soon became playful and affectionate. Baby elephants are just three feet high at birth and weigh about two hundred pounds. They grow an inch each month. We made pets of them and amused ourselves with weaning them. We did this by taking a pail of warm milk and dipping the babies' trunks into it, then doubling the trunks up and putting them into their owners' mouths, and finally squirting milk in with a squirt gun. The babies soon learned to imitate this procedure. They were mischievous little animals, full of fun and inquisitiveness. Hour after hour, I played with them and laughed until I ached.

The Sultan arrived with his retinue, and we gave him a ceremonial greeting. Deputations from all the villages were present, and Omar requisitioned food for a great feast. The Sultan had little to say about the elephants until I took him up on the platform where he could count them for himself. For a minute he looked at them, wide-eyed; then he repeated, "Sir, you spoke the truth."

"I always speak the truth," I replied, and I could see by his expression that he believed me. He was convinced that I was honest. I knew that I had his protection for any expeditions I might undertake in Trengganu. His friendship had been difficult to win, but it was worth the trouble--quite aside from the value of the elephants. Trengganu was virgin country, filled with animals that my customers wanted to buy, and I had the exclusive privilege--so far as foreigners were concerned--of hunting there. And, since the Sultan received a bonus on the animals captured, he provided me with labor.

The Sultan remained several days and we spent much of our time in talking over the problems of government. These conversations ended by my becoming a sort of foreign adviser in all dealings with European countries. Later, before Trengganu was made a British protectorate, he awarded me some valuable tin concessions. The new arrangement under the British government was made satisfactorily; he received a suitable pension and he passed happily into a purely honorary position in his state, relieved of all the complexities of political administration. When I last saw him, he was living in indolent comfort, surrounded by his wives--and his two-story brick palace was at last completed.

It took more than a week after the departure of the Sultan of Trengganu for the natives to get their fill of celebration. While they feasted and danced, I made my plans for the stocks in which the sixty elephants were to be broken.

The breaking of elephants, especially so large a herd, is a long, tedious job. I was thankful that I had Prince Omar with me to keep the natives working. The hunter, who kills and skins his animals, has a simple life compared with the collector, who must not only take the animals alive and uninjured, but convey them through miles of jungle country to a port. Months of hard labor were before us, and the success of the expedition was by no means assured, even though we had our elephants safe in the stockade. It was to be a great test in managing the natives.

There is only one thing that a Malay values, and that is his _kris_--his knife. To lose this cherished possession means to lose honor. There is a saying to the effect that money will buy everything but a lucky kris. Their disregard of money makes all dealings with Malays extremely difficult, and their dislike for work has completely blocked more than one project. To my mind, the Malays are the laziest people in the world.

When work is an exciting or amusing game, such as the hunt, they will go on for days without signs of fatigue. They seem to keep alive by some fanatic energy. But when work is just plain labor, they will say "Wait," or "I must think." Or a Malay may say candidly: "Sir, I have just had plenty to eat. I am content." Many times I have had a Malay tell me, when I asked him to do some work, that he had enough rice and fish for the day and that he might die during the night. It is an unanswerable argument. Tomorrow's food can be found when tomorrow comes.

The Malay's food is simple and his clothes are few. With no more effort than dropping a few seeds and covering them with earth, he can grow most of the food he needs, aside from his rice and fish. One catch of fish will supply his family for weeks and give him a surplus to sell to the Chinese traders. With the money he can buy some cloth and a little powder. Six or seven good-sized chickens cost one Mexican dollar; eggs cost one Mexican cent; yams, one or two cents each; pineapples, two or three cents. Why worry about the tomorrow that may never come? Why should a Malay gentleman, who believes in Allah and whose stomach is full, do the labor that can be done by heathen, pig-eating Chinese?

"Will you row me across the river?" I asked a Malay one day.

"_Tûan_, I have eaten and I have had plenty," he responded. "You may take my boat and row yourself across the river. Tomorrow, if Allah grants me life and if I need the boat, I will swim over for it."