Between the two hustling the lame man, he fell, crying; and humbug though he might be, my gorge rose. For an instant I forgot that I had meant to ingratiate myself with the shopkeeper, and abused him in my most expressive Arabic. I scolded my own man, and, without waiting for my camel to bend its knees and let me down, I slid off to the rescue.
"The fellow is worthless," pleaded the shopkeeper, anxious to justify his violence. "It was for Effendi's sake that I pushed him. He is rich. He is the king of all the beggars—the scandal of Hathor Set."
"Whatever he may be, he's old and weak, and I won't have him struck," I said. "Here, let this dry your tears," I went on: and enjoying the suppressed rage of Abdullah my camel-man, I raised the weeping beggar from the ground and gave him a handful of piastres. With suspicious suddenness his sobs ceased and turned to blessings. He wished me a hundred years of life and twenty sons: and then, exulting in the rout of Said ben Hassan and Abdullah, defiantly returned to the rag of sacking he had spread like a mat on the sand. The keeper of the shop glared a menace: but his wish to sell his goods overcame the desire for revenge; and contenting himself with a look which said "Only wait!" he turned with a servile smile to me. Would the honoured master enter his mean shop, give himself the pain to examine the wonderful stock superior to any even in Cairo, and sip sherbet or Turkish coffee?
I paused, reflecting that it might be better to inquire somewhere else. Humble as the man's tone was, his eyes glittered with malice; and once he had my money he would delight in sending me on a wild-goose chase. As I thought what to answer, my eyes wandered over his show window, and suddenly concentrated on a piece of embroidery. Some small table-covers and scarfs of thin Eastern silk were draped on a brass jardinière. On the smallest of all I read, in old English lettering, the words "Help. Maida."
I kept my self-control with an effort. For a few seconds I could not speak. Then I inquired the price of that piece of embroidery, pointing it out. The shopkeeper's fat brown face became a study. He was asking himself in an anguish of greed how high he might dare to go. "Five hundred piastres," he replied, leaving generous room for the beating down process. But I did not beat him down.
"That's a large price," I said, "but I will pay if you tell me where the embroidery came from. It's an old English design. That's why I'm curious to know how you got it."
Said ben Hassan seemed distressed. "Honoured Sir, I would tell you if I could, but I cannot. It would be as much as my life is worth. Ladies of the harem make these embroideries, or their women. I sell them, and they use the money for their charities. It is a sacred custom. I can say no more."
"I will give you a thousand piastres," I said.
The man looked ready to cry, but persisted. "It is a great pain to refuse," he mourned. "But I would have to make the same answer if Effendi offered two thousand."
"I offer three," I went on.