The waiter had by this time made his appearance, and the order being communicated by a most expressive pantomime of drinking, and a few solitary words of German Dalton possessed, the room assumed a look of sociality, to which Dalton's presence very mainly contributed.
In the confidence such a moment of secrecy suggested, Foglass produced an ear-trumpet, a mark of the most unbounded good faith on his part, and which, had Dalton known him better, he would have construed into a proof of implicit reliance on his honor.
“I've been many years at Constantinople,” said he, adjusting the instrument, “and the confounded muezzin has made me a little deaf. It's an everlasting calling to prayers, day and night, there.”
“How they ever expect to get to heaven by tormentin', and teasin', is more than I know,” said Dalton.
“They 're Mahomedans!” said Foglass, with the air of a man uttering a profound sentiment.
“Ay, to be sure,” observed Dalton; “it's not like Christians. Now, is it true, they tell me they never eat salt meat!”
“Never!”
“Think of that! Not a bit of corned beef, nor as much as a leg of pork—”
“Would n't hear of it,” interrupted Foglass. “Wine, too, is forbidden.”
“And punch?”