“No, really, thanks,” persisted the young man. “And I’m afraid we must be getting on. I don’t know the river, you see, and I’d like to reach Dizful before dark.”
The Brazilian studied him a moment.
“As you say,” he finally conceded. “But you will at least have another drink before you go?”
“No, not even that, thanks,” said Matthews. “We really must be off. But it’s been very decent of you.”
He felt both awkward and amused as he backed out to the deck, followed by his imposing host. At sight of the two the crew scattered to their oars. They had been leaning over the side, absorbed in admiration of the white jinn-boat. Matthews’s Persian servant handed up to Magin’s butler a tray of tea glasses—on which Matthews also noted a bottle. In honour of that bottle Gaston himself stood up and took off his greasy cap.
“A thousand thanks, Monsieur,” he said. “I have tasted nothing so good since I left France.”
“In that case, my friend,” rejoined Magin in French as good as his English, “it is time you returned!” And he abounded in amiable speeches and ceremonious bows until the last au revoir.
“Au plaisir!” called back Gaston, having invoked his jinni. Then, after a last look at the barge, he asked over his shoulder in a low voice: “Who is this extraordinary type, M’sieu Guy? A species of an Arab, who speaks French and English and who voyages in a galley from a museum!”
“A Brazilian, he says,” imparted M’sieu Guy—whose surname was beyond Gaston’s Gallic tongue.
“Ah! The uncle of America! That understands itself! He sent me out a cognac, too! And did he present you to his dame de compagnie? She put her head out of a porthole to look at our boat. A Lur, like the others, but with a pair of blistering black eyes! And a jewel in her nose!”