In a trice Elias whipped out from his breast a greasy pocket-book, stuffed with testimonials from travellers, which, by the violence of their owner's haste to begin calculations, were scattered on the sand. As there was no wind, Elias let them lie there for the present, and holding the pocket-book close to his nose, fell to dotting down Arabic numerals on the tablet allotted to memoranda.
Iskender glared at him. The wretch who yesterday had been crushed and all-submissive, to-day aspired to take command of an expedition the very idea of which was all Iskender's.
"This was gif me by one American gentleman," Elias remarked of the pocket-book. "Well, come along then! You take camels or mules? Camels hold the most, but mules much nicer. We say fifty mules. Then you want a cook, and a waiter, and 'bout ten muleteers, and five—six big tents. I think you do it easy, grub an' all, sir, for 'bout five hundred bound."
"Good Lord!" ejaculated the Emîr.
"Well, I do it for less, much less, but you be uncomfortable."
Iskender, then awaking from his trance of horror, grasped the dragoman's arm and shook it angrily.
"What do we want with fifty mules, O ass?" he asked in Arabic. "One mule would carry enough to make us all as rich as Mûsa el Barûdi."
"By Allah, thou art an ass thyself! Is it not well to bring away the most we can," returned the visionary, sore dismayed; when, seeing how their talk apart made the Frank suspicious, he relapsed into English with a genial smile:
"Yes, fifty too dam' many; we take ten. A friend of mine got three nice tents—a bit old, but neffer mind! He let you haf 'em cheab, because he luf me. Then three horses for you and me and 'Skender. How far you say it is?" He turned to Iskender. "You know the way."
"About nine days from here, accordin' to the baber which my father wrote. My mother kebt it to this day."