and a smoke, that's all."

"That is all raite, my frens. I don't like mooch coffees myselfs. De
med-i-seen is mooch bettaires," said Mohammed, patting his stomach and
grinning again, as he winked knowingly at Tom, in a manner that would
have shocked a true believer, while he shouted out an order to the Arab
boy. "But, de sheerbeet is goot for de leetle boys, O yase."

"Cunning old rogue," said Charley, aside to Tom. "He wants all the
brandy for himself, although he wouldn't like his fellow-religionists to
know that he drank it. I suppose if we wished for some, we would have
to ask for a drop of the med-i-seen."

"Oh, he's not a bad sort," replied Tom. "He has offered me wine many a
time, and he's a generous old chap, I should think. Well, Mohammed," he
continued, aloud, "and how's business?"

"Ver bad, ver bad inteet," said that worthy. "I nevare did no worse in
my loife. I shall have to shoot up de shop soon."

"That's a good one!" exclaimed Tom. "You can tell that to the marines.
I bet you've got a snug little pile of piastres stowed away somewhere."

"P'raps I haive," said the old Turk, nodding his head as he smiled
complacently; "and if you young shentlemens should be vat you call `ard
oop,' I could lend you some moneys. But don't talk so loud," he added
cautiously, casting a glance at a group of Greek sailors who were
gabbling away near them, and scanning Tom and Charley curiously, "I
don't like de look of dose fellows dere, and dey might hear us talk if
dey leesten, and vill remembers."

"What of that?" asked Charley; "I don't suppose they would understand
us."

"Aha, so you tink," said Mohammed warily. "But dose Grecs are ver
knowing and oop to every ting. Dey are bad, ver bad, every one."

As he spoke two of the Greeks separated themselves from the group, and
came over to where they were sitting, as if sent for the purpose.

"I understand," said one, who acted as spokesman, and addressed them in
the most perfect English, "that your captain is in want of hands?"

The question was pertinent enough, as more than half the crew were laid
up in the Beyrout hospital, or lazaretto, with a sort of malarial fever,
and the _Muscadine_ was only waiting for their recovery, or until enough
hands could be shipped, to enable her to pursue her voyage to her next
port, Smyrna, where she was to complete her cargo, and then sail for
England.

The boys of course knew this well enough, but they did not see i