In Which I Become Involved with a Number of Monkeys

 

 

A great many people, both European and African, used to come to the camp site to have a look around and see all the strange animals that I had collected. Among these varied creatures there were, of course, the monkeys, of which we had about fifty different kinds. Sharing even such a big thing as a marquee with many of these lively animals was an exhausting experience. Fifty monkeys can create an awful lot of trouble when they put their minds to it. Of all the monkeys we had, there are three that I remember best. These were Footle, the moustached monkey, Weekes, the red-headed mangabey, and, last but not least, Cholmondely, the chimpanzee.

Footle, when he arrived in the camp, was the smallest monkey I had ever seen, for with the exception of his long tail, he would fit very comfortably into a teacup, and then leave a certain amount of room to spare. His fur was a peculiar shade of green, and he had a very nice white shirt front; his head, like most baby monkeys’, seemed much too big for his body and it was the same greenish color, except for his cheeks, which were a bright buttercup yellow. But the most astonishing thing about him was the broad curved band of white fur across his upper lip, which made him look exactly as though he possessed a big moustache. I had never seen anything quite so ridiculous as this tiny monkey wearing this enormous Santa Claus-like decoration on his face. For the first few days, Footle lived in a basket by my bed with other baby animals, and had to be fed with milk from a feeding bottle. The bottle was about twice his size, and he used to fling himself on it with cries of joy when it arrived, stuff the end into his mouth, and wrap his arms and legs round it firmly, so that I could not take it away before he had finished. He would not even let me hold the bottle for him, presumably in case I stole any of the contents, and so he would roll about on the bed with it clutched in his arms, looking just as if he were wrestling with an airship. Sometimes he would be on top, sometimes the bottle, but whether he was on top or underneath, Footle would still suck away at the milk, his moustache jerking up and down with the effort.

He was a very intelligent little monkey and it was not very long before he had learned to drink his milk out of a saucer but as soon as this had been mastered, his table manners became simply frightful. I would put him on the table to be fed, and when he saw me approaching with the saucer he would work himself up into a frenzy of impatience, jumping up and down with excitement and screaming at the top of his voice. Hardly was his meal on the table, than he would without any hesitation dive head first into it. There would be a great shower of milk and he would sit in the center of it and duck his head under the surface, only coming up when he could not hold his breath any longer. Occasionally, in his greed, he would wait too long and come up sputtering and sneezing out milk like a fountain. It used to take me a good half an hour to dry him after every meal, for by the time he had finished, he would look as though he had been bathing in the milk instead of drinking it.

I decided that this could not go on, for Footle was fed five times a day and as he got soaked each time, I was frightened that he might catch a chill. I thought that the reason for his excitement was that he could see the milk coming when he was sitting on the table, so I tried a new way of feeding him. I put the saucer on the table first and then carried Footle to it. The first time I did this, he saw the milk when he was still some way off and, uttering a shrill squeal of joy, he jumped out of my hands, shot through the air very gracefully, and landed in the center of the milk with a splash. Of course, the saucer was overturned and both Footle and I were drenched.

After this, I tried holding him while he drank, and this was a trifle more successful. He used to wriggle and scream with rage because I would not let him dive into the milk as though it were a swimming pool, and sometimes he would succeed and struggle free, plunging in before I could stop him. But on most occasions, this method worked well and he remained reasonably dry, except of course for his face. I was unable to stop him from pushing that into the milk, and when he came up for air his face would be so white with cream that you could not tell where his moustache began and ended.

When Footle was not eating, he loved to cling to something. All baby monkeys, when they are that age, usually cling to their mothers as they wander through the trees. Footle, having adopted me as his mother seemed to think that it was only right that he should cling to me when he was not feeding. Most of the time I used to carry him around when I worked, and he behaved very well, sitting on my shoulder and clinging to my ear with one hand. But one day he got too brave and jumped off, and landed on the wire front of a cage which contained a large and fierce monkey who promptly grabbed Footle by the tail. If I had not been there to rescue him this would have been his last adventure.

I decided that it was too dangerous for Footle to sit on my shoulder while I worked, and therefore I shut him up in his basket, but he was obviously unhappy and spent his day screaming plaintively and trying to climb out, so I had to think of something else. I got an old coat of mine and wore it for a few days, carrying him around on my shoulder as usual. When he had become quite used to the garment, I took it off and hung it over the back of a chair and then put Footle on to it. He did not seem to realize that I was no longer inside the coat and clung to it with great affection.

So every morning, I would put the coat over the back of the chair, place Footle on it and he would cling there quite happily while I got on with my work. He seemed to think that the coat was part of me, a sort of extra skin I suppose, and as long as he was attached to some part of me he felt quite happy. He would even carry on long squeaking conversations with me while I worked, but never attempted to leave the coat and climb up on to my shoulder. When we eventually arrived at Liverpool, Footle had a wonderful time posing on my shoulder for the press photographers. They were quite fascinated by him; none of them had ever seen such a tiny monkey. One reporter watched him for a long time, and then he turned to me and said, “You know, he seems awfully young to have such a big moustache.”

 

 

Weekes, the red-headed mangabey, came by his name because of his cry. When ever you went near his cage, he would open his mouth wide and shout “Weekes, weekes” at the top of his voice. He was a delicate shade of gray all over, except for a band of white fur round his neck, and the top of his head, which was a bright mahogany red. His face was a very dark gray and his eyelids were creamy white. Normally, you could not see these, but when he greeted you he would raise his eyebrows and lower his lids so suddenly, it looked as though his eyes had been covered by white shutters.

Weekes was very bored with living in a cage by himself with no one to play with, but I could not give him a mate, as he was the only one of his species that I had. He did not realize this, however, for all around him he could hear and smell other monkeys and he thought it very unfair of me not to let him leave his cage and go to play with them. He decided the best thing to do was to tunnel his way out of the side of the cage when I was not looking.

He had discovered a small gap between the boards of the side of his cage and set to work with fingers and teeth to widen it. The wood was very hard, and it was only after much picking and biting that he was able to work off a small splinter. I kept a cautious eye on the hole to make sure it did not get any larger, but Weekes did not know this and thought I knew nothing about it. He would spend hours biting and scratching at the wood, but as soon as he heard me coming he would leap up on to his perch and sit there, looking as innocent as possible, raising his eyebrows and showing his white eyelids, blinking at me cheerfully, in the hope of persuading me that he was the very last monkey in the camp to do anything wicked.

I did not do anything about Weekes’s hole, for I thought that as soon as he found out how hard the wood was he would soon give it up. To my surprise, exactly the opposite happened. He became so interested that he used to spend every available moment biting and scratching and sucking at the wood. Every time I came on the scene, however, there he was sitting on his perch without a care in the world, and if it had not been for the few splinters that stuck to the hairs of his chin, I should not have known that he was still going on with his mining operations. He seemed so convinced that I did not know about his secret passage that one day I thought I would give him a surprise.

I had just given him a bowl of milk, so he was not expecting me back at his cage for at least an hour. Refreshed by his drink, he set to work on his hole. I allowed him enough time to get well started and then I crept down the line of cages. There was Weekes, squatting on the floor, with a grim, determined expression on his face, tugging with both hands at quite a large splinter of wood. It was a very tough piece, and although he pulled at it with all his might, it would not part company with the side of the cage, and so he became angrier and angrier, muttering to himself and screwing up his face in the most frightening grimaces. Just as he was bending forward to see if he could bite through the annoying splinter, I asked him in a stern voice what he thought he was doing.

He jumped as though I had jabbed him with a pin, and then glanced over his shoulder with a horrified and guilty expression on his face. I asked him again what he thought he was up to, and, giving me a feeble grin, he made a halfhearted attempt to show me his eyelids. Seeing that I was not to be distracted, he sheepishly let go of the splinter and seizing his empty milk pot, leaped on his perch, where he was overcome with embarrassment and put the pot over his face and fell backward off the perch to the bottom of the cage. He looked so ridiculous that I had to laugh, and so he decided that I must have forgiven him. He climbed back on his perch, wearing the pot like a tin helmet on his head, and then fell off the perch again. This time he fell on his head and hurt himself, so he had to come to the bars and have his paws held until he felt better.

Now that he realized I knew all about his hole, he gave up being so secretive about it and used to work away in full view of me. If I scolded him, he would repeat his trick of putting the pot over his face and falling backwards off the perch; and if I laughed he would assume that he had been forgiven and go back to work. Just as a precaution, however, I nailed a bit of wire over the outside of his hole, which he was extremely annoyed about when he discovered it. When he found he could not shift the wire, he rather reluctantly gave up his tunneling, but never forgot his trick of falling off his perch backward, and would always do it when he knew I was angry with him, to try and pacify me.

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

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