"He who will not recognize the coming of danger is like unto a man who would rob his own house," quoted the Jew in a thin rasping voice.
"A very pretty quotation," commented Anniston dryly, "from a literary standpoint."
Half an hour later they were safe in the realms of Anniston's adobe house among the larches and oleanders, near the 'Great Mosque of the Zorastrians' and the 'Shrine of Ali Sharef,' an ancient philosopher-poet of Persia. Having assured himself that there was no longer cause for alarm, the little Jew began to breathe again. Anniston summoned an Arab servant, well versed in the art of medicine, who silently applied a cooling balsam to the son of Abram's burning, smarting, aching back, helped him into a bleached cotton coat which the American himself selected from amongst his own, and led him to a low, comfortable divan near one of the open windows.
Having made sure that he was as comfortable as possible, the Arab silently withdrew and Anniston was left along with the perfectly satisfied Jew.
He produced a jar of Egyptian tobacco and several pipes which he pushed toward the latter.
"I prefer the genuine weed," he said between puffs, "to the sickening hashysh of the natives."
"I am addicted to both," replied the other, selecting a fine specimen of meerschaum and filling it slowly as he spoke.
For a few seconds they smoked in silence. Then Anniston said reflectively, blowing a wreath of smoke ecstatically from his lips, "We have been friends for
