Abdul explained that, some five or six years before, his father, a well-to-do saddlemaker of Ain Afroo, had contrived to quarrel with the sheikh of his district, refusing, in fact, to pay the sheikh a very extortionate levy. It was, Abdul admitted, a foolish thing to do, for soon afterwards the saddlemaker died mysteriously. His family took instant flight with what possessions they could get together, and found refuge in Casa Blanca, where the boy had a distant relative, the owner of a small coasting vessel. Since that time he had been engaged in trading up and down the coast, and in his journeyings had picked up a smattering of English and Spanish.
The small capital which the family had brought with them had been considerably increased by profitable investments in trading ventures of the lad’s kinsman. A share in the business was owned by Salathiel ben Ezra, the Jew who was now being brought from the wreck in the yacht’s boat. It was very unlucky; Abdul could not but think that the wreck must have been caused by an evil spell cast on the boat by the Jew; for Salathiel had never voyaged on the vessel before. The loss of the ship meant the loss of almost the whole of his family’s little fortune, and Abdul feared they would be placed in the power of Salathiel, who already had some claim on them which Abdul himself did not understand. But everything happened by the will of Allah; it was written, and what is written must be.
Abdul’s story was hardly finished when the Jew was hauled on board. He appeared to have quite regained his self-possession during the short passage of the boat. He made a deep obeisance when Mr. Greatorex met him on deck.
“I pay a thousand dutiful civilities,” he said in a low smooth voice. “The honourable sir overwhelms me with kindness in saving me and my humble companion from the jaws of the monster, and my thanks are even as the sand of the shore. May I beg the little loan of a dry garment or two?”
“Take Mr. Salathiel below, Captain Bodgers,” said Mr. Greatorex, “and see what you can do for him.”
With a deep salaam and a fawning smile the Jew departed.
“Um!” grunted Mr. Greatorex. “Don’t like his looks, Tom.”
“He’s not prepossessing, certainly; a little too glib, don’t you think?”
“A rascal, Tom; mark my words.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that. But we may get something out of this, Mr. Greatorex. This young Moor comes from the very country where Ingleton is said to be. Don’t you think we may profit by that?”