But if Yusef came not by the cafe where Wassef sat glooming, some one else came who quickly roused Wassef from his phlegm. It was Donovan Pasha, the young English official, who had sat with him many a time at the door of his but and asked him questions about Dongola and Berber and the Soudanese. And because Dicky spoke Arabic, and was never known to have aught to do with the women of Beni Souef, he had been welcome; and none the less because he never frowned when an Arab told a lie.
“Nehar-ak koom said, Mahommed Wassef,” said Dicky; and sat upon a bench and drew a narghileh to him, wiping the ivory mouthpiece with his handkerchief.
“Nehar-ak said, saadat el Pasha,” answered Wassef, and touched lips, breast, and forehead with his hand. Then they shook hands, thumbs up, after the ancient custom. And once more, Wassef touched his breast, his lips, and his forehead.
They sat silent too long for Wassef’s pleasure, for he took pride in what he was pleased to call his friendship with Donovan Pasha, and he could see his watchful neighbours gathering at a little distance. It did not suit his book that they two should not talk together.
“May Allah take them to his mercy!—A regiment was cut to pieces by the Dervishes at Dongola last quarter of the moon,” he said.
“It was not the regiment of Mahommed Selim,” Dicky answered slowly, with a curious hard note in his voice.
“All blessings do not come at once—such is the will of God!” answered Wassef with a sneer.
“You brother of asses,” said Dicky, showing his teeth a little, “you brother of asses of Bagdad!”
“Saadat el basha!” exclaimed Wassef, angry and dumfounded.
“You had better have gone yourself, and left Mahommed Selim your camels and your daughter,” continued Dicky, his eyes straight upon Wassef’s.