“Yes, yes, that’s all right. But come now, how did you get into that pretty pickle?”
“Tell us how the ship came to be wrecked,” said Tom, translating.
“Aiyeh! She caught in fog last night, struck rock. Quick it was all over; no one live, only me and Salathiel ben Ezra.”
“That is your friend’s name, is it? A Jew?”
“Yes, excellency, a Jew. A dog of a Jew!”
“And you are not a Jew? What is your name?”
“Abdul, most merciful—Abdul ben Cassim, of Ain Afroo in Zemmur.”
“Zemmur!” ejaculated Mr. Greatorex. “Isn’t that the neighbourhood where Ingleton is said to be?”
“Yes,” replied Tom. “We may find the lad useful. Tell us, Abdul, how you came to be at sea with a Jew.”