Zack shoved him out and commanded: "Tell 'em dat. Put plenty ginger in it."
"Very good, Effendi."
When Mahomet turned to Agha he needed a forty-acre lot for the gestures, shouts and vilifications to make the other Arab comprehend. Agha lacked ginger, and a cynical audience treated his premium proposition to a fizzle. Not a single customer broke cover. Zack was disgusted. He wheeled abruptly, and went behind the counter.
"Somebody's gwine to eat dis catfish. Here, pup! here, pup!" Two perfectly spontaneous dogs gulped down the pieces that Zack tossed. Other dogs volunteered—barking, snapping, snarling, excited dogs, and the crisp chunks vanished steadily. The first pan was empty, and the second dwindled low as Zack doled it out with exasperating deliberation. The Shilluks began to stir restlessly, until hungry black Kudit could endure it no longer. He kicked the dogs aside and planked down his piaster.
"Now dat's de way to eat a man-size bait o' catfish. You gits de fust prize." Zack fumbled in his pocket, drew out a Spottiswoode campaign button, and pinned it in Kudit's mop of hair. Instantly the herd stampeded, and piasters rattled on the bench; the tag end of the dishpan disappeared, at one piaster per. But it required much
