“Yes, I know,” I answered.
“If a policeman touches you, then, you must give him a nice whipping,” continued the cook. “If my father had been to America I would give nice whippings every day. Many friends I have the policeman dare not touch.”
“If they only refuse to obey the soldiers,” said Nehmé, “that is nothing. Everybody does that. But here is the wonderful! They do not have even to give backsheesh!”
“Do you have backsheesh in America?” demanded Shukry.
“Ah—er—well, the name is not the same,” I stammered.
“To-morrow,” said Shukry, as I stropped the razor which the cook had invited me to use, “you are coming to live with me.”
“Look out, sir!” said the cook; “you are cutting your moustaches.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Aah!” shrieked the cook, as I scraped my upper lip clean. “Why faranchees make that? So soon I my moustaches would shave, so soon would I cut my neck.”
The next morning, shod in a pair of Nazarene slippers, heelless and as thin as Indian moccasins, I set out with the teachers for the home of Shukry. It was a simple dwelling half way up a hill, and from its roof spread out the bowl-shaped village at our feet. The death of the father a short time before had left the youth to rule over the household. Although he was only seventeen years old, he seemed like a man, boasting already a bristling moustache, for human beings grow up early in the East.