Making an excuse that he must consult with Max, he got rid of the Gondo.
“Here is a fix we’ve got into,” said Ibrahim, when alone with his friend.
“What is it?”
“Do you know how many cymbal players we have?”
“About thirty.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Well, they are all yours.”
“Mine?”
“You have to marry them.”
“The——”
Max stopped. His thoughts evidently formed the name by which the prince of the power of the air is familiarly known, but he bit his lips and did not utter his thoughts.