Going ashore to do shopping, you encounter a crowd of chair coolies
at the landing, calling to you, pushing each other, contending for
your custom. “Here, Missy, you come this side; you belong my; my
have you last time;” till you select a chair, when the rest subside,
or a sepoy comes and silences them with blows from his billy, which
are administered freely. If the two men who carry you do not go fast
enough, you call out, “Chop chop;” if too fast, “Man man,” till you get
to the store.
Some of the answers from the shop-keepers to your questions are, “Have
got;” “no can do;” “Melican like man like this;” “no have got;” “him
makee Japan;” “he no sandal wood; cedar wood, sandal wood oil.”
Asking for some music paper I was told, “no got; my makee you some.” A
sheet of blank paper was spread on the counter, a ruler which moved
on rollers was laid on it, a plate partly filled with india ink was
drawn within reach, a camel’s hair paint brush instead of a pen, drew
the lines. Much of the work you could not distinguish from music-paper
ruled by machine; the distances of some of the staves from each other
were not regular; but the lines of each staff were remarkably even. A
half quire was ready the next day. The shop-keepers add up the amount
of your purchases on frames, such as we see in our primary schools;
but the system of numeration I could not understand, the attempted
explanation being in confused pidgin English.