of his body.  Six good feet nine inches—­an overbearin’ man.  Next to him, and I have forgotten his precise business, was Sandy Vowle.  And he was six feet seven, but lean and lathy, and it was more in the elasteecity of his neck that the height lay than in any honesty o’ bone and sinew.  Five feet and a few odd inches may have been his real height.  The remainder came out when he held up his head, and six feet seven he was upon the door-sills.  I took his measure in chalk standin’ on a chair.  And next to him, but a proportionately made man, ruddy and of a fair countenance, was Jock Coan—­that they called the Fir Cone.  He was but six feet five, and a child beside Lammitter and Vowle.  When the three walked out together, they made a scunner run through the colony o’ Larut.  The Malays ran round them as though they had been the giant trees in the Yosemite Valley—­these three Lang Men o’ Larut.  It was perfectly ridiculous—­a lusus naturae—­that one little place should have contained maybe the three tallest ordinar’ men upon the face o’ the earth.

‘Obsairve now the order o’ things.  For it led to the finest big drink in Larut, and six sore heads the morn that endured for a week.  I am against immoderate liquor, but the event to follow was a justification.  You must understand that many coasting steamers call at Larut wi’ strangers o’ the mercantile profession.  In the spring time, when the young cocoanuts were ripening, and the trees o’ the forests were putting forth their leaves, there came an American man to Larut, and he was six foot three, or it may have been four, in his stockings.  He came on business from Sacramento, but he stayed for pleasure wi’ the Lang Men o’ Larut.  Less than, a half o’ the population were ordinar’ in their girth and stature, ye will understand—­Howson and Nailor, merchants, five feet nine or thereabouts.  He had business with those two, and he stood above them from the six feet threedom o’ his height till they went to drink.  In the course o’ conversation he said, as tall men will, things about his height, and the trouble of it to him.  That was his pride o’ the flesh.

’"As the longest man in the island—­” he said, but there they took him up and asked if he were sure.

’"I say I am the longest man in the island,” he said, “and on that I’ll bet my substance.”

’They laid down the bed-plates of a big drink then and there, and put it aside while they called Jock Coan from his house, near by among the fireflies’ winking.

‘"How’s a’ wi’ you?” said Jock, and came in by the side o’ the Sacramento profligate, two inches, or it may have been one, taller than he.

‘"You’re long,” said the man, opening his eyes.  “But I am longer.”  An’ they sent a whistle through the night an’ howkit out Sandy Vowle from his bit bungalow, and he came in an’ stood by the side o’ Jock, an’ the pair just fillit the room to the ceiling-cloth.

’The Sacramento man was a euchre-player and a most profane sweerer.  “You hold both Bowers,” he said, “but the Joker is with me.”