"I am only my master's slave," murmured Babalatchi, in a hesitating
manner. Then as if making up his mind suddenly for a reckless confidence
he would inform Abdulla of some transaction in rice, repeating the words,
"A hundred big bags the Sultan bought; a hundred, Tuan!" in a tone of
mysterious solemnity. Abdulla, firmly persuaded of the existence of some
more important dealings, received, however, the information with all the
signs of respectful astonishment. And the two would separate, the Arab
cursing inwardly the wily dog, while Babalatchi went on his way walking
on the dusty path, his body swaying, his chin with its few grey hairs
pushed forward, resembling an inquisitive goat bent on some unlawful
expedition. Attentive eyes watched his movements. Jim-Eng, descrying
Babalatchi far away, would shake off the stupor of an habitual opium
smoker and, tottering on to the middle of the road, would await the
approach of that important person, ready with hospitable invitation. But
Babalatchi's discretion was proof even against the combined assaults of
good fellowship and of strong gin generously administered by the open-
hearted Chinaman. Jim-Eng, owning himself beaten, was left uninformed
with the empty bottle, and gazed sadly after the departing form of the
statesman of Sambir pursuing his devious and unsteady way, which, as
usual, led him to Almayer's compound.
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