“It is in my town of Acre that the backsheesh is nice,” cried the cook, proudly, “and the nicest smuggling. Have you seen that big, strong gate to my town, sir? Ah, sir, many nice smugglings go in there. But how you think?”—he winked one eye long and solemnly—“The nice smugglings are the ladies. Many things the lady can carry under her long dress.”
“But there are the guards,” I put in.
“The guards? Quick the guard get dead if he put the finger on the lady.”
“Then why not have a woman guard?” I suggested.
“Aah!” cried the cook. “How nasty!”
“But the man,” he went on, sadly, “must pay backsheesh if he smuggle a pound of arabee (native tobacco, so-called in distinction from “Stambouli,” the revenued weed) or if he make a man dead.”
“What!” I cried, “Backsheesh for murder?”
“Oh, of course,” apologized the cook, “if the man that makes dead has no money, he is made dead by the soldiers—”
“‘Kill’ is the English word, Elias,” put in Nehmé.
“Oh, yes,” continued Elias, “if the man that kills has money, the officer sends a soldier after him. The man puts his head through his door and drops some mejeediehs in the soldier’s hand. Then the soldier comes back and gives almost all the mejeediehs to the officer, and they decide that the man has run away and cannot be find. But if it is a faranchee has been made—er—killed, very bad, for the consul tell the government to find the man and kill him—and if the man have not so much money that the government cannot find—very bad!”