er, by dint of shoving themselves
unceremoniously through the lookers-on who congregated to see the
caravans pass, taking no notice of the many invocations to Allah to
curse them, as "dogs of Christians," who profaned the sacred presence of
the followers of Islam by breathing the same air as themselves; finally
reaching the courtyard of Mohammed's khan, after much jostling and
struggling and good-natured expostulation and repartee, enlivened with
many a hearty laugh as some donkey driver came to grief with his load,
or when a venerable Arab sheikh on a tall dromedary sputtered with rage
at finding the way impassable and his dignity hurt.

The Turk who kept the khan, or coffee-house, was a middle-aged man, who
had seen a good deal of all sorts of life in knocking about the world,
and was so cosmopolitan in his character that he was almost
denationalised. He had a round, good-humoured face, that told as
plainly as face could tell that he was no ascetic, or rigid Mussulman
bound to the edicts of the Koran, but one who liked good living as well
as most folk.

Tom's description of him hit him off exactly; he was decidedly "a jolly
old Turk"--nothing more nor less.

On seeing the boys come in, he at once made places for them beside him
on the divan, where he sat on a pile of cushions smoking a long
chibouque, with a coffee-cup beside him on a little tray, that also
contained sweetmeats, from which he took an occasional sip in the
intervals, when he removed the stem of his pipe from his lips and
emitted a vast volume of tobacco-smoke in one long puff.

"Aha, my young capitan!" said he to Tom Aldridge, when they had seated
themselves, cross-legged, as he was, and accepted the chibouques brought
to them immediately by an Arab boy, "you ver long time coming to see me.
I tinks I nevare see yous no more!"

He spoke broken English, but with his genial manner and broad smile of
welcome made himself readily understood.

"I couldn't come before," said Tom. "But I didn't forget you all the
same, for I've brought what I promised, the bottle of--"

"Hush-h!" interrupted old Mohammed, with a warning gesture, placing his
hand before Tom's mouth. "De med-i-seen for my leg? Ah, yase, I
recollects. I am ver mooch oblige. Tanks. You'll have some cafe?"

"No, thank you," replied Tom. "I and my friend here are sick of coffee;
let us have some sherbet instead, although we don't want anything. We
only came to have a chat with you