To this he protested that he had no money, not a peseta left—every coin had either been spent at the feast or had been left at Tetuan.
In this case, the best plan would be, we said, for S`lam to take with him a letter to the Consul at Tetuan explaining to him what had happened; then as S`lam earned money, he might pay it into the Consul's hands for us, until he had made good the sum advanced him. At this S`lam looked blank: he said such a letter would mean prison for him. We stood firm. It was a rude shock to our faith when his hand found its way into the leather bag at his side under his jellab, and he pulled out and threw on the table two-thirds of the money which had been given him.
It was suggested that he should pay the whole sum.
No! he was penniless.
Then in that case he could sell the new jellab he had just bought.
He scoffed at the idea.
In reply to our order to come to the hotel the first thing the following morning and see our baggage safely on board the steamer, he said that he should leave Tangier at daybreak, and that it was quite impossible for him to attend upon us, evidently expecting that his prepaid wages would be amicably allowed to slide. But not in the face of this final desertion. We reiterated the former course—a letter to the Consul at Tetuan; again he pleaded abject poverty; but meeting only with inclemency, once more plunged his hand into his bag, and pulled out dollars amounting exactly to the sum which he had been advanced.
So much for his poverty. We were now, he explained, "quits." "All was right between us." He "would not like to leave us with a trace of ill feeling remaining between us and himself."
He did leave us, however, with his tail fairly between his legs, and, if he had been kicked out of the hotel, could not have gone forth more sadly.
What motive he had for going back to Tetuan, or what whim seized him in Tangier, remained a mystery. Impulsive as a child, he had been at first madly keen, so he said, to go with us to the world's end; then, as the time approached, in the same ratio his ardour evaporated; until, finally, he had no more desire left, and on the march over to Tangier grew more indifferent and morose at every step. While we were in Tangier he was like a fish out of water. And yet he had been once to Fez and to Morocco City: he was a travelled man. Possibly he had a more remunerative billet in view, or was homesick, or jealous about Tahara. After all, whatever the reason, his line of conduct was only distinctly Moorish, and characteristic of a race in which, as a whole, no wise man places great reliance. A Moorish servant will not rob his European master: perquisites are a sine qua non, of course. Probably his lies are no blacker than those of European servants; but the Moor, in place of that quality of faithfulness which can ennoble an English rascal, has a cold-blooded current in his veins. His manners may be charming—he is a plausible devil; but lean upon him, and he turns out to be as jerry-built as his own crumbling whitewashed walls.