and said nothing until the chief of the establishment presented him with
a white cup of coffee, so very small that he felt almost equal to the
swallowing of cup and coffee at one gulp. With a gracious bow and
"Thank you," he accepted the attention, and began to sip. The dignified
Arab who gave it to him did not condescend upon any reply, but turned to
attend upon his other customers.

Foster's first impulse was to spit out the sip he had taken, for to his
surprise the coffee was thick with grounds. He swallowed it, however,
and wondered. Then, on taking another sip and considering it, he
perceived that the grounds were not as grounds to which he had been
accustomed, but were reduced--no doubt by severe pounding--to a pasty
condition, which made the beverage resemble chocolate. "Coffee-soup!
with sugar--but no milk!" he muttered, as he tried another sip. This
third one convinced him that the ideas of Arabs regarding coffee did not
coincide with those of Englishmen, so he finished the cup at the fourth
sip, much as he would have taken a dose of physic, and thereafter amused
himself with contemplating the other coffee-sippers.

At the time when our hero first arrived at Ben-Ahmed's home, he had been
despoiled of his own garments while he was in bed--the slave costume
having been left in their place. On application to his friend Peter,
however, his pocket-knife, pencil, letters, and a few other things had
been returned to him. Thus, while waiting, he was able to turn his time
to account by making a sketch of the interior of the coffee-house, to
the great surprise and gratification of the negroes there--perhaps,
also, of the Moors--but these latter were too reticent and dignified to
express any interest by word or look, whatever they might have felt.

He was thus engaged when Peter returned.

"Hallo, Geo'ge!" exclaimed the negro, "what you bin up to--makin'
picturs?"

"Only a little sketch," said Foster, holding it up.

"A skitch!" repeated Peter, grasping the letter, and holding it out at
arm's length with the air of a connoisseur, while he compared it with
the original. "You call dis a skitch? Well! I neber see de like ob
dis--no, neber. It's lubly. Dere's de kittles an' de pots an' de jars,
an'--ha, ha! dere's de man wid de--de--wart on 'is nose! Oh! das
fust-rate. Massa's awrful fond ob skitchin'. He wouldn't sell you now
for ten t'ousand dollars."

Fortunately the Arab with the wart on his nose w