"No; the price will be marked on every feather—take it or leave it. Run along, Said."
Mahomet glared at Said, who started off in a willing trot. Then Mahomet himself whirled away towards the post office, like a dust-devil, so as to return in haste, for he had no mind to let that Dongalawi usurp his rights in chaffering with Ibrahim.
Colonel Spottiswoode hurried back to his room. "Here, Zack," he ordered, "get everything ready for that two o'clock boat. Don't budge out of this room until the packing is done."
"Now dar you is agin, Cunnel; talkin' to me like I was goin' to run off somewhar. Huh! Dis here little dab o' packin' is jes good as did. It'll be right dar on de boat waitin' for you." Old Reliable fell upon the scattered contents of a suitcase while the Colonel went out and waited for Ibrahim. "Hello!" he laughed; "who's that? Can't be a feather peddler. That must be Abou ben Adhem, may his tribe increase."
It was even he—the feather man from Osman ben Issa. Mahomet and Said flanked a venerable white-bearded man clad in a cascade of spotless robes, surmounted by a turban that looked like a huge twisted drop of confectioner's icing. Three abreast, they paused middlewise of the gate while the porter salaamed profoundly—"May Allah increase thy goodness."
