“We do; we understand,” they answered.
From their position they could observe everything without being seen. They saw the factor make his way to the front among the buyers. They heard the auctioneer, a sturdy, strong-voiced fellow, conspicuous from an enormous turban he wore round his head, bellow out:
“Ho, Arabs, children of Zanzibar, and ye rich men, look up! Here is a priceless slave from Ututa. He calls himself King of Ututa” (a laugh from a bystander). “Kings command high prices.” (“They make very bad slaves!” shouted Selim’s factor.) “I am going to run this fellow high.” (“No you won’t;” Selim’s factor.) “Look at him well. Watch his eyes; they are living fire. See the pose of his head. Observe his limbs; clean and well-shaped as a Nedjèd mare’s. Look at his chest; there’s wind, there’s hard work there.” (“Very little work, plenty of wind to run;” Selim’s factor.) “Just take a glance at his teeth; there,—open boy. No, dog! take that” (buffeting him). “Look at his hair; it hangs below the shoulders. Believe me, no slave was ever offered in this market to equal him. Offer; an offer, Arabs. Rich men, who require a good slave, make an offer for the best slave ever brought to Zanzibar.”
“Say, auctioneer, why is he handcuffed? did he try to murder his master? And why is the chain about his neck? Has he tried to run away?” asked Selim’s factor.
“Silence!” thundered the auctioneer. “An offer is what I want.”
“Two dollars!” shouted the factor, smiling sardonically.
“Two dollars!! Only two dollars! for this unequalled slave. Man, look at him, and offer a hundred.”
“Five dollars!” shouted a bystander.
“Five dollars! Five, five, five, five, five.”
“Six!” shouted the factor.