Soghomon turned red to the tips of his ears.
“Vaī bana (worse luck), I’m hungry,” he stammered at last, “and I always have a good appetite.”
“Right you are, old man,” said Aram, “it seems to me you’ve been getting thin lately.”
“Bah!” said Nejib. “I bet he won’t eat them.”
“Why not?” said Soghomon pettishly. “My father ate thirteen once.”
The shouts of laughter redoubled.
“I bet he will eat them,” cried Aram.
“What will you bet?” asked Nejib.
“My Iceland postage-stamps.”
“Pek-et (all right)! I’ll bet my romance by Walter Scott.”