“Tell him to stop, Ali Mustaf—tell him to stop, or I will shoot him!”
It was not necessary for Ali Mustaf to repeat the boy’s words. Ben Ahmet seemed to understand, and he stopped, grinding out an Arabic oath.
“Good enough!” nodded Frank. “Now we will get down to business. Ali Mustaf, you must do as I direct, if you have any desire to prolong your existence in this vale of tears. I am the ringmaster in this little circus, and I am liable to use the whip.”
“What would you have me do?” sullenly growled the cadi.
“First, I would have you cast down that knife. Drop it, you old pirate, or I’ll drop you!”
Frank’s eyes flashed, and Ali Mustaf made haste to cast aside the dagger, as if it had suddenly grown red-hot.
“So far it is all right,” nodded the determined youth. “Now you are to order your side-partner, Uncle Ben, of the profuse whiskers, to drop his scimiter. That is a real ugly looking weapon, and I wouldn’t care to have it frisking around my neck.”
The cadi spoke to Ben Ahmet, and the sheriff reluctantly dropped the curved weapon.
“What next, dog?” sullenly demanded Ali Mustaf. “Do you think you have one chance in a thousand of escaping? Then you deceive yourself greatly.”
“That’s all right; don’t you worry about me. Just do as I tell you, if you are anxious about your own health. Something further, Ali, old boy, and that is you’ve altogether too familiar a manner of addressing me as ‘dog.’ I don’t like it. It is not my name, and I object to it. Hereafter, you will not use it when you speak to me. Do you catch on?”