then squeezed into the bottom
drawer, which he had filled with scapulars, the bottle with a little
of the Stuff in it. For we were in accord about this, that in New York
whiskey is better than arak. And we both took a nip now and then. So I
thought the bottle was in order. But why he placed his bank book,
which was no longer worth a straw, into that bottom drawer, I could
not guess. With these preparations, however, we shouldered our boxes,
and in an hour we were in the suburbs. We foot it along then, until we
reach a row of cottages not far from the railway station. 'Will you
knock at one of these doors,' I asked. And he, 'I do not feel like
chaffering and bargaining this morning.' 'Why then did you come out,'
I urged. And he, in an air of nonchalance, 'Only for the walk.' And
so, we pursued our way in the Bronx, until we reached one of our
favourite spots, where a sycamore tree seemed to invite us to its
ample shade.

"Here, Khalid, absent-minded, laid down his box and sat upon it, and I
stretched my limbs on the grass. But of a sudden, he jumped up, opened
the bottom drawer of his case, and drew from it the bottle. It is
quite in order now, I mused; but ere I had enjoyed the thought, Khalid
had placed his box at a little distance, and, standing there beside
it, bottle in hand, delivered himself in a semi-solemn, semi-mocking
manner of the following: 'This is the oil,' I remember him saying,
'with which I anoint thee--the extreme unction I apply to thy soul.'
And he poured the contents of the bottle into the bottom drawer and
over the box, and applied to it a match. The bottle was filled with
kerosene, and in a jiffy the box was covered with the flame. Yes; and
so quickly, so neatly it was done, that I could not do aught to
prevent it. The match was applied to what I thought at first was
whiskey, and I was left in speechless amazement. He would not even
help me to save a few things from the fire. I conjured him in the name
of Allah, but in vain. I clamoured and remonstrated, but to no
purpose. And when I asked him why he had done this, he asked me in
reply, 'And why have you not done the same? Now, methinks I deserve my
_mojadderah_. And not until you do likewise, will you deserve yours, O
Shakib. Here are the lies, now turned to ashes, which brought me my
bread and are still bringing you yours. Here are our instruments of
deception, our poisoned sources of lucre. I am most happy now, O
Shakib. And I shall endeavour