“Bah!” cried Frank.
“What does Baa! mean?” said the professor. “Black sheep?”
“Nonsense! Ask Morris if it would not be as easy as easy to tinge one’s skin to any depth, from a soft brown to black.”
“Won’t do,” said the professor. “You’d dye your face, neck, and arms, and some time or other you’d be caught bathing.”
“Not much chance for bathing out there when we were away from the Nile, eh?”
“Well, having a sand-bath; and then they’d see that the rest of your skin was white.”
“Oh, no, they wouldn’t,” cried Frank. “I should do as that amateur did who wanted to play Othello properly—black myself all over.”
The professor took off his fez, laid it upon his knees, and with both hands gave his shaggy hair a vicious rub, which, however, did not disorder it in the least, seeing that it was as rough as could be before.
“Yes,” said the doctor; “he has an answer for all objections, Fred, old fellow.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” cried the professor, putting on his fez again, and making a vicious dab at the tassel, which was tickling his neck, but subsided quietly between his shoulders after it had done swinging. “He has something to say to everything. Too much talk. It wouldn’t do. The Baggara are as keen as their swords: they’d see through it directly.”