"Mohammed Ghori."
"Which is he?"
"He squats there."
The Mohammedan stopped and touched the old mahout on the shoulder.
"Call off this sale, and my master will make you rich."
The old sinner gingerly felt of the speaker's cotton garb. "Ah! 'My master' must be rich to dress thee in cotton. Where is your gold? Bid," satirically.
"Two thousand rupees!" shouted the professional seller.
"I have no gold, but my master will give 10,000 rupees for yonder maid. Quick! Old fool, be quick!"
"Begone, thou beggar!"
And the old man spat.