“Pah! Bless my heart!” ejaculated the old gentleman, as soon as he saw what he had done. “Here, Lawrence, you will have to take all my pocket-handkerchiefs away till we get back to a civilised land.”
“If the effendi would let me have his handkerchiefs I could make him a turban to keep off the sun, or if he would condescend to wear my fez it is at his service.”
“Rubbish! Stuff!” cried Mr Burne, taking off his battered straw hat, which looked as if he had slept in it on the previous night, if not before, and then sticking it on again at a fierce angle. “Do I look like a man, sir, who would wear a fez with a towel round it? Hang it all, sir, I am an Englishman.”
Yussuf bowed.
“Why, he must think me mad, Lawrence.”
“My dear Burne,” said the professor smiling, “Yussuf is quite right. Come, you might make that concession.”
“Sir, do I look like a man who would wear a fez with a jack-towel twisted round it?” cried Mr Burne in the most irate manner.
“You certainly do not, my dear Burne,” said the professor laughing; “but you do look like a man who would make any sacrifice for the benefit of his party.”
“Ah! I thought as much,” cried the old gentleman. “Now you come round me with carney. There, Yussuf, take it,” he cried, snatching off his straw hat and sending it skimming through the air. “Now, then, what next? Do you want my coat and boots to dress up your Guy Fawkes with? Don’t be modest, pray. Have even my shirt too while you are about it.”
He took five pinches of snuff in succession so close to Ali Baba that the horse began to sneeze—or snort would be the better term.