“That is not necessary at present,” answered the boy. “First let some expert olive merchants be brought in.”
Several olive dealers, the most expert in the city, had been sent for, and they now came forward.
The lad asked these real merchants the same questions he had asked of the feigned merchants the night before. “How long,” said he, “is it possible to keep olives good?”
And the merchants answered, as had the boys, “Not more than three years, for no matter how carefully they have been packed, after that time they lose both color and flavor.”
“Look in that jar,” said the lad, “and tell us how long you think those olives have been kept there.”
The merchants examined the olives with the greatest care, and then they all agreed that the olives were of that year’s growth and quite fresh.
“And do you not think it possible they may have been kept a year or so?”
“No, it is not possible,” answered the merchants. “We know, of a surety, as we have already said, that these olives are of this year’s growth, and have only recently been packed in the jar.”
When Ali Cogia heard this he gave a cry of surprise, but Abul Hassan was silent; his face grew as pale as ashes, and his legs failed under him, for he knew that the merchants, in saying this, had pronounced sentence against him.
But the lad turned to the Caliph and begged that he might now be allowed to hand over the case to him. “When I pronounced sentence last night, it was but in play,” said he. “But this is not play. A man’s life is at stake, and I dare not pronounce sentence upon him.”