F course this is “Jack,” the ourang-outan. And he ought to be, for his name being translated from the vernacular means, “the wise man of the wood.” But Jack is only a child of four years as yet, and, intelligent though he is, it is only the intelligence of a human baby, and will never, even if he live to the full span of ourang-outan life of five-and-twenty, be anything more. But he is well worth going to see, and, as a “show,” Jack having his hands washed is far superior to the lions being fed.
For Jack gets his hands very dirty in the course of a day or two, and then they are washed. A chair is taken into the cage, and the attendant, having got out a pail of warm water, soap, towels, and flannel, calls the ourang out. It is etiquette to wait till he is called, but he obeys cheerfully, and seats himself in the chair, and, with the most comical expression on his face conceivable, gives his left hand to the attendant. And while it is being soaped, and washed, and dried, and re-dried, polished, and vaselined, Jack sits there holding on with his other three hands to the chair as if he were afraid that some practical joke was going to be played off on him, and his head turned to one side, looking out through the bars, pretending that he is a suffering martyr, and all the time most absurdly betraying his pleasure in the performance. One hand done with, the other is given, and Jack holds the clean one up before his face, sniffs the soap and tastes the vaseline, and, as if satisfied that the job has been well and thoroughly done, drops the hand down by his side with a fine-lady affectation of being accustomed to luxuries that is irresistibly funny. One by one all his grimy, grubby hands are washed to a nice healthy pink, and then Jack is told he can go; and he does go, but with a deliberateness that suggests he would like to be called back. Arrived at his box, he seats himself, and submits each of the cleansed members to examination, and, quite content and comfortable, gives his hands a parting sniff, and lies down.
But it is not sleeping time yet, for Jack has a cold, and he has got to take some physic. This is given him in milk, and as a rule he takes it without giving any trouble, the apples or plantains that are laid out before him being quite sufficient incentive to be “a good boy and take the medicine.” But sometimes he is whimsical, and all the patience and good humour of the attendant and the sight of the fruit, which are to be his when he empties his pannikin, are not enough. He will put it to his lips, sip it, give a little cry of reluctance, and try to spill it. Again, and again, and again, it is offered. No, Jack will have none of it. He will take the pannikin, smell its contents, touch them with his pouted-out under-lip, but every time it is the same—he whimpers and tries to upset it. Then the attendant pretends he will waste no more time with him, and, picking up the fruit, makes believe to go. At this the ourang throws itself down on its back on the straw, rolls from side to side holding its toes with its hands and screaming like a naughty baby in a passion. “Well, then, come and take your medicine, and here's an apple and here's a plantain for you;” and back comes Jack—but only to go through exactly the same performance. The keeper repeats this threat, and the ourang is again rolling about on the straw in uncontrollable grief. And so the fight goes on. Then the keeper really does leave the cage, taking the fruit with him, and then Jack's grief is no sham but very real indeed. He cries aloud and gets out of temper. So the keeper comes back, and a compromise is arrived at. Jack is to drink “a little,” and then he shall have his fruit. To this the ourang assents, and, having fulfilled his part of the bargain with a ludicrous imitation of being disgusted at the taste of what he has to drink, he receives the fruit, and peace is restored on the best possible basis of mutual satisfaction. Jack's blanket is then brought in and handed to him, and the ourang returns to his box, and it is really most interesting to see the cleverness with which he so manipulates it that he has it completely under him and over him with enough left to tuck in. And so, with his head pillowed on his hand and his face just peering out from under the blanket, Jack gives a comfortable little sigh, and closes his eyes.