"He don't appear to understand," said Harry Girdwood. "Try him in St. Giles's Greek?"
"What's the damage for the brace of trotter boxes, old Flybynight?" demanded young Harkaway, looking as solemn as a judge.
The Turkish merchant repeated the price in his native tongue, and they made no progress in their deal.
While they were thus engaged, who should come into the bazaar but Nat Cringle, and with him their old friend the Irish diver?
"I'll put it to him. Mayhap he'll understand me. What an illigant ould thafe it is," said the diver, when he had waited some time for a reply.
"Why don't ye answer, ye dirrty ould spalpeen?" he demanded, after a pause. "Be gorra, av ye don't sphake, I'll give ye one wid my twig."
Saying which, he flourished his shillelagh before the slipper merchant's face, and then gave him a smart tap on his head.
The grave old Turk then found his tongue, and the reply was such a startler, that the four travellers were knocked off their moral equilibrium.
"Tare and 'ounds, ye blackyard omadhauns! Ye thavin' Saxin vaggybones! ave ye'd only thread on the tail av me coat, so as to give me a gintlemanly excuse for blackin' yer squintin' eyes, I'd knock yez into next Monday week, the blessed lot av yez!"
The four visitors stared at each other in wonder.