“Are you the superintendent, sir?” I asked, in French.
The octogenarian frowned, but answered not a word. I repeated the question in a louder voice.
“Va t’en!” shrieked the old man, grasping a heavy cane that leaned against his chair and shaking it feebly at me. “Go away! You’re a beggar. I know you are.”
Evidently the fourth layer of shirt bosom, uncovered specially for the occasion, had failed in its mission. I pleaded a case of mistaken identity. The aged Frenchman watched me with the half-closed eyes of a cat, clinging to his stick.
“Why do you want to see the superintendent?” he demanded.
“To work, if he has any. If not, to see the temple.”
“You will not ask him for money?”
“By no means.”
“Bien! En ce cas—Maghmoód,” he coughed.
A native appeared at the door of the shanty.