That afternoon Sam set aside his English clothes and blossomed forth into a showy-looking Arab, evidently feeling rather proud of his dress, the most conspicuous part of which was a scarlet scarf broadly spread around his waist, one which in an ordinary way would have been pretty well hidden by the loose outer cotton robe, but which the man took ample care should not have its brilliant tint eclipsed more than he could help.
Naturally enough he sought the first opportunity he could find of getting Frank alone in the tent, and began at once in rather a conscious way.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “I mean, Ben Eddin. May I say Ben for short?”
There was a short nod, and the man continued—
“I say, sir—Ben. It’s very awkward, but the professor says I’m to treat you as if you’re my fellow servant. You won’t like that?”
There was a quick, eager nod.
“Well, I sha’n’t, Mr Ben. I can’t help it, but it makes me feel ashamed like, and as if I’d lost all respect for my master’s young friend.”
Frank held out his hand with a smile, and kept it extended till, in a slow, hesitating way and with a peculiar grimace, Sam took it, and felt it held in a firm, manly, friendly grip.
“Oh, well, Mr Ben, if it’s to be like that I can’t help it; but please recollect that however disrespectful I seem through this business my ’eart’s in its right place, and I think just the same of you as ever I did.”
There was a quick, eager nod and a smile, which made the man look more cheerful for a moment; but as he drew back his hand, he raised his white garment involuntarily and began to wipe the fingers, passing the white cotton over them two or three times before he realised what he was doing.