All natives seem to love the ceremony of touching hands. Dyaks and Kayans turn the palms of their hands upwards, and bend their fingers in the shape of claws; into these cavities you dip your fingertips, when the slightest touch on your part appears to give satisfaction. It is extraordinary how cool and dry the hands of Sarawak natives are at night, or when a storm is in progress. On this tempestuous evening, none of the hands I touched felt either warm or clammy. Our guests were very affectionate to Bertram and me, and seemed glad to see us again. The Tanjong women were the first to come forward; their silken draperies rustled, their armlets tinkled, but their naked feet moved noiselessly across the matted floor; they swept along as though wafted by an invisible wind, and in the semi-darkness looked like groups of brightly draped ghosts. After them came the Dyak women, noisier and heavier of tread, with their Amazon-like cuirasses, and their very short petticoats. When the women had passed, Kayan warriors swaggered up. Then came the Dyaks, and the long procession finished with the flower of ci-devant piratical contingents--thin, spare old men, still known and addressed by glorified titles won in exploits during their youthful days--Bald-Headed Hawk, Torrent of Blood, Face of Day, the Cobra, and many other titles, equally terrifying and appropriate. These old gentlemen were full of swagger, with a tremendous sense of their own importance. The greetings having taken place, we called for the dances to begin. On such occasions the arrangement of the programme is a matter of difficulty, as none of the performers appear to like figuring in a _lever de rideau_. I inquired in Malay who should begin the performance, Mingo translating my remarks in a loud voice, so that all should hear; but the women sat sullenly in their corner, the men squatted motionless in various parts of the room, and no one seemed inclined to respond to the invitation. We waited a considerable time, and I began to despair. There was nothing for it--Mingo must come to the rescue. I told him to ask the Tanjong ladies to open the ball. Mingo looked at me sternly, nodded his head, glared round him for a second or so, and then marched up to one of the corners of the room, where the girls were sitting in a group. He laid hold of two shrinking figures and dragged them resolutely under the lamp swinging from the centre of the ceiling. For a minute or two the girls remained where he placed them, giggling, shrugging their shoulders, and pulling the hem of their jackets over their mouths. They pretended to be shy, sliding their feet in and out of their trailing petticoats, and suddenly rushed back to their former places and flopped down in the midst of their friends. Quick as lightning, Mingo was after them. He got hold of their hair, their arms, their draperies, anything that came to hand, and pulled them back under the lamp.