“Yes,” he said; “it is old-fashioned, and not new and civilised like things in Cairo, but it is grand, and I am proud of the Hakim and my camels; are not you?”
“Not a bit of it!” said Sam contemptuously. “It’s all very well for you, Mr Abrahams, being a native and used to it. But me, an Englishman—a Londoner—proud of it! Why, I wonder at you.”
“But,” said the old man, “look at the camel you are riding; how soft, how sleek, how graceful, and how easily it moves! Ah! I see you are getting proud.”
“Me? Proud? What, of being here?” cried Sam.
“Yes; you have learned to ride the camel, and you sit it easily and well. You ride as if, as you Englishmen say, you were born upon it.”
“Oh, do we? Well, I won’t say I can’t ride it now, nor I won’t say it don’t come easy. You see, Mr Abrahams, there ain’t many things an Englishman can’t do if he gives his mind to it.”
“You look well, Mr Samuel,” said the old man, smiling.
“Now, no chaff!” said Sam suspiciously. “No gammon! You mean it?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’m glad I do. You think these savages will think so too, and that I am the real thing?”