“Well, very English indeed.”
“Would he be painted black, Excellency?” said Ibrahim.
“He’d only look like an imitation Christy Minstrel if he were, eh, Frank?” said the professor.
“Would he have his head shaved like his Excellency the Hakim?” said the Sheikh.
“Got him!” cried the professor excitedly. “Here, Ibrahim, you wanted to know what he can do. He’s the Hakim’s barber, and can shave a head.”
“Ah-h-h-h!” said the Sheikh, drawing out the ejaculation to an inordinate length. “He can shave—and well?”
“Splendidly! Can’t he, Morris?”
“Oh, yes, excellently well,” said the doctor, smiling.
The Sheikh took off his turban and softly passed one hand over a head which was like a very old, deeply-stained billiard ball at the top, but was stubbly at the back and sides, as if it had not been touched by a barber for a week.
“May he shave me, Excellency?” said the old man. “I should like to see the man and whether he is skilful enough to deceive those who will watch him with jealous eyes.”