igantic Nubian in all his outlandish
panoply. While changing the dress suit for his street wear, from a
back room came the sound of the blackamore moving about, chanting that
weird refrain, tumpty, tumpty, tum--tum; tumpty, tumpty, tum--tum;
which from Mesopotamia to the Pillars of Hercules, from the time of
Ishmael to the present, has been the song of the sons of the desert.
What was his surprise when the blackamore emerged. Gone were his
turban, his flowing trousers, his scimetar, pistols, and poniards. He
had on a long yellow mackintosh, which did not, however, conceal a
pair of black and white checked pantaloons, a red tie, and green vest,
from each upper pocket of which projected an ivory-handled razor.

"Don't forget the change, Mesrour."

"No indeed, boss," replied the blackamore, whistling "Mah Tiger Lily,"
as he departed.

The Moslem provided Mr. Middleton with one of those pipes which in
various parts of the Orient are known as narghilehs, hubble-bubbles,
or hookabadours, and seeing his guest entirely at his ease, without
ado began as follows:

"My name is Achmed Ben Daoud, and I am hereditary emir of the tribe of
Al-Yam, which ranges on the border of that fortunate part of the
Arabian peninsular known as Arabia the Happy. My youngest brother,
Ismail, desirous of seeing the world, went to the court of Oman, where
struck by his inimitable skill in narration, the imam installed him as
royal story-teller. But having in the space of a year exhausted his
stock of stories, the imam, who is blessed with an excellent memory,
discovering that he was telling the same stories over again, shut him
up in a tower constructed of vermilion stone quarried on the upper
waters of the great river Euphrates. There my poor brother is to stay
until he can invent a new stock of stories, but being utterly devoid
of invention, only death or relenting upon the part of the imam could
release him. Hearing of his plight, I went to the imam with the
proposition that I seek out some other story-teller and that upon
bringing him to Muscat, my brother be released. But the imam exclaimed
that he was tired of tales of genii and magicians, of enchantments and
spells, devils, dragons, and rocs.

"'These things are too common, too everyday. Go to the country of the
Franks and bring me a story-teller who shall tell me tales of far
nations, and I will release Ismail, and load him with treasure.'

"'My Lord,' said I, 'peradventure no Frank stor