od appears, and the bird is thrown down, being held in place by
the performer's foot till in a few minutes its struggles cease. Then,
picking the victim up, he holds it aloft by one wing to show its
condition, and exultingly calls for a Fatihah.

It is enough: my patience is exhausted, and I rise to make off with
stiff knees, content at last with what I have seen and heard of the
"charming" of snakes in Morocco.

[Illustration: _Cavilla, Photo., Tangier._

A MOROCCO FANDAK (CARAVANSARAI).]

XIX

IN A MOORISH CAFE

"A little from a friend is much."

_Moorish Proverb._

To the passer-by, least of all to the European, there is nothing in
its external appearance to recommend old Hashmi's _cafe_. From the
street, indeed, it is hardly visible, for it lies within the threshold
of a caravansarai or fandak, in which beasts are tethered, goods
accumulated and travellers housed, and of which the general appearance
is that of a neglected farm-yard. Round an open court a colonnade
supports the balcony by which rooms on the upper story are approached,
a narrow staircase in the corner leading right up to the terraced
roof. In the daytime the sole occupants of the rooms are women whose
partners for the time being have securely locked them in before going
to work.

Beside the lofty archway forming the gate of this strange hostelry, is
Hashmi's stall, at which green tea or a sweet, pea-soupy preparation
of coffee may be had at all hours of the day, but the _cafe_ proper,
gloomy by daylight, lies through the door behind. Here, of an evening,
the candles lit, his regular customers gather with tiny pipes,
indulging in flowing talk. Each has before him his harmless glass, as
he squats or reclines on the rush-matted floor. Nothing of importance
occurs in the city but is within a little made known here with as much
certainty as if the proprietor subscribed to an evening paper. Any
man who has something fresh to tell, who can interest or amuse the
company, and by his frequent visits give the house a name, is always
welcome, and will find a glass awaiting him whenever he chooses to
come.

Old Hashmi knows his business, and if the evening that I was there may
be taken as a sample, he deserves success. That night he was in the
best of humours. His house was full and trade brisk. Fattah, a negro,
was keeping the house merry, so in view of coming demands, he brewed a
fresh pot of real "Mekkan." The surroundings were grimy,