When the show was over they walked up the street toward the Turkish village. Here a number of people were gathering around a Turkish fakir who was at the side of the street loudly proclaiming the merits of his wares and shouting out some tirade that his employer had taught him as a means of attracting a crowd. Johnny had seen the fellow before and he drew his friends up close to him so they could hear his peculiar harangue.
"By the beard of the prophet, my heart swells to spill the souls of those christian dogs. I am the mighty man of the desert and they shall repent or die."
"He, he, he," yelled Louis, "that's the feller what the kids told me yanked the mummy of Rameses from the holy temple and knocks out all the Chinamen and Arabs along the Plaisance. Look at him howl."
"Oh, Jeremiah, let's get away quick. I'm 'fraid he's dangerous," said Aunt Sarah.
"No he ain't," said Louis. "Jest watch me," and he walked up and tossed a copper at the orator's head and Abdul, the mighty man of the desert, caught it with a grin and in broken English said "tank ye."
"Disturb me not, O reckless heathens," and he flipped a pebble with his fingers at a passing German who had just come out of the mediaeval castle with a tray of beer mugs on his head. The stone struck him on the ear. He set his tray down on a table and came over to the warlike Arab.
"Wot ver you trow dot stein."
"Move on I contend only with the strong and mighty."
"Wot ver you trow dot stein," and the little waiter edged up close.
