“Me no make. Buy.”
“Where? Syria?”
The woman shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. In his mind Willie replied for her. “Habib Mahaleb, I’ll bet,” he thought.
Then he smiled good-bye, took his pistachio-nuts, and left the store. He went along the street, studying the sign over each door. He was searching for Habib Mahaleb. Down one street and up another went Willie, but with no success. Finally on the window of almost the only Oriental store remaining, Willie found the name he was searching for. The place seemed to be a business house of considerable size. Willie entered and asked for a dime’s worth of pistachio nuts. A clerk promptly took from a shelf a tin can exactly similar to the one the other merchant had emptied, and weighed out the nuts.
The clerk was a young fellow and seemed inclined to converse. He was dressed exactly like an American and talked English readily, though with a marked accent.
“Like America?” asked Willie.
“Fine.”
“Where’s your home? Syria?”
“No. Armenia.”
“Going to stay in America?”