Shere Ali was greatly interested in “Misterre Punch.” I had to go over the jokes and explain them to the Armenian—sometimes, in the more subtle ones, a matter of no little difficulty—and he translated them to Shere Ali in Persian. Shere Ali generally laughed, though I fancy from the little I had picked up of Persian, that the Armenian made his own point when he had missed mine. He was quite capable of both seeing and making a joke, as I found in after years when I brought him to London.
With the aid of the pictures I gave the Armenian vivid descriptions of London and the glories thereof. One day, somewhat to my surprise, he said:—
“Sir, let me see London. If I die then—don’t matter!”
The officer who had charge of the Page boys, came to see me; he was a short thick-set man, and sensible. He asked me many questions in surgery, and seemed willing to learn a few simple remedies in case of emergency. I was very glad to teach him.
Generosity of the Amîr.
At this time I was brought very low in the world as regards tobacco. I had been reduced to smoking in a pipe broken-up cigar stumps which, in view of this difficulty, I had carefully saved. Tobacco, except uncured, and to me unsmokable Persian tobacco, was not to be obtained in Mazar. I said to the Armenian, “I shall be cleaned out of tobacco soon—and then, Chaos!”
He said, “Sir, I not know Chaos, what is; but Amîr Sahib has plenty of cheroot and cig-rette.”
“That is very likely,” I said, “but I haven’t.”
“You not care it, I write him, Amîr Sahib, and he give it you. What a few cigar or cig-rette! no-thing!”