"On you be peace and the blessings of Allah," Ibrahim replied, and moved majestically along the wide path to halt at the piazza steps. After exchanging elaborate salutations, Sheikh Ibrahim presented to Reinhardt his letter from Osman ben Issa. Turning then to the American Pasha, Ibrahim opened his bulky parcel, reverently as if he were unbinding the Sacred Carpet of Mecca, and proceeded to lay out some twenty plumes. Reinhardt promptly swept the bunch aside. The unmoved Ibrahim spread another lot upon the table, another, and still another. "Trash; litter; rubbish," said Reinhardt.
"What's wrong with those feathers?" demanded the Colonel.
The steward stooped, brushed a feather on the floor, then held it close to his bare arm—"See? It does not cling. The bird was dead, already."
Mahomet Mansour had returned in a rush from the post-office, and now stood watching his charge to wedge into the argument, as Reinhardt proceeded to pick over the feathers.
"Ach!" exclaimed the German. "Here is one not so bad, not so very bad."
Again Reinhardt brushed the plume in the dust; when he held it near his arm every fiber reached out as if attracted by a magnet—"Good feathers always so," he observed.
It was a long, wide plume, uncleaned and un-
