“What is the matter, Selim?” asked Abdullah. “Art thou sick?”
“Sick! No; but listen all of ye. Do ye see yon slave about to be sold now?”
“Yes,” answered all.
“Then that slave, as sure as Allah is in heaven, is my adopted brother Kalulu!”
“Kalulu!” exclaimed the startled friends. “Yes, Kalulu!”
“Wallahi, he is!” exclaimed Moto in an excited tone. “There is not another here present who can hold his head like that, be he Arab or African. He is the King of the Watuta! I swear it;” and as he said that he was about to rush off, followed by Simba, when Selim shouted, “For Allah’s sake, don’t stir!”
“Why? He is not a slave,” shouted Simba. “He has been stolen by that Arab caravan, which travelled by night, because the chiefs feared the day, bike thieves. Moto, thou wert right. I see it all now. Wallahi! but I will break the back of the thief, even if the Sultan of Zanzibar cuts my head off. Let me go, Selim!”
“Silence, Simba,” said the factor. “Thou wilt draw attention to the young master. I see what Selim wants. He wants me to go and buy him. Ah, ha! Africa has taught thee cunning, Selim!”
“Yes, go,” said Selim. “Offer anything; but don’t let him be bought by anybody else. Give a thousand dollars for him, but bring him to me. We will wait thee here.”
“Fear not; but there is one thing thou hast not observed, Selim. I know I shall get him cheap. Dost thou not see that he is handcuffed? He is dangerous. Simba, be thou ready. Watch me nod my head, do not stir until I do so, then go to him and catch him. When I have paid the money he becomes Master Selim’s slave. And thou, Selim, keep guard over this big fellow, or he will ruin the game I am going to play. Abdullah, Moto, do ye hear?” asked the factor.