[CHAPTER XVII]
MANY TRIBES
Hayoun the Jew "At Home"—Hayoun's largesse—Hindus, Parsees and vaccination—Buralli's knowledge of legs.
The élite of our town is composed almost entirely of Arabs, Indians, and Jews, who mix little with the Somals. Of course, money talks, and Haji Abdi Kheiri, the rich Somal trader, is getting his foot into the higher circles, but as yet he is little at ease amid the gaiety of social gatherings. Yesterday Hayoun the Jew invited all the notabilities, of whom I am one—I must speak up for myself—to a gathering at his house. There were present the Indian customs superintendent, the Hindu assistant-surgeon, the District Clerk, two Parsees, a Goanese clerk, a few Arabs, Haji Abdi Kheiri, and myself. Everyone was courteous and polite, and all were most obsequious to me. As I climbed on to the flat open roof to join the party Haji Abdi Kheiri fired off his gun five times. This in my honour, but being unused to such displays I thought I had been drawn into an ambush placed ready to take my life, and, for a second, I had an instinct to jump back and down the steep steps. One acts hurriedly on such occasions, I mean when one thinks there's danger, but, fortunately for my reputation, I caught a glimpse of Hayoun's face. He was cool and unexcited; so reasoning that he would not look like that were there any trouble, as his date of decease in such a case would not be many seconds later than mine, of which fact he would be well aware, I advanced with a laugh and said, "Good afternoon."
The party—after my arrival—being all present, and correct, and Haji Abdi Kheiri having put away his gun (much to my relief) festivities commenced. I sat at the head of a table where tea was served. The whole town had been ransacked for table-covers, the colours of which gave me a pain in the head. I opened the ball by drinking a bottle of ginger pop. My glass was at once replenished with lemonade. Fruit—out of tins—was served, and this partaken of Hayoun arose from his chair and made a speech, saying how rejoiced the whole community were the great British nation had emerged so successfully from the fiery ordeal of the greatest war in the history of the world, and pointing out that at that table sat men of five different creeds—Hindu, Parsee, Mahomedan, Jewish, and Christian—who were entirely in agreement with the sentiments he had expressed.
Then Haji Abdi went for his gun again.
"God knows," said I to myself, "whether, or not, he is going to rectify the matter according to his lights, and make the party all one religion—his—by disposing of the other four. In any case it is time I took a hand."
"Haji Abdi Kheiri," said I, "put that gun down, sir, or you'll be shooting someone before we break up."
"But Djibouti is firing salutes, and we must also fire," said Hayoun the Jew. "I have especially arranged with Haji that he should do this in honour of the signing of peace. Will not your honour grant permission?"
As we listened we heard the Djibouti gun booming away, and what else was to be done but to allow the salute to be fired. It could not be heard as many hundreds of yards away as the French gun could be heard miles. But at last I insisted on Haji putting away his firearm for keeps, and thanked the party for the nice things their spokesman had said about our nation. I told them how proud I was to find men of five creeds, as far apart as five equal points of the circle, able to meet under one flag, in friendship and unity, and to pay it such a tribute.