Not long ago a rich Englishman came here. He used to go out in the evenings and shoot bats; then he put them into bottles with spirits of wine—he was an amateur of bats. On the day of his departure from the place, he said to the polyglot Arab guide whom he had picked up somewhere on his wanderings:
"You will rejoin me in Tunis in ten days. Bring me more bats—tirlils: comprenni?—from this country. I will give you fifty centimes apiece."
"Bon, Monsieur," said the guide, and took counsel with the folks of Gafsa, who, after certain reservations and stipulations, showed him the way into these quarries.
On the day appointed he entered the rich tourist's hotel in Tunis, followed by ten porters, each carrying a large sack.
"Hallo!" said the Englishman, "what's all this?"
"Bats, Monsieur."
"Eh? How much?"
"Bats; tirlils, chauve-souris, pipistrelli… They will need much bottles. Six hundred tirlils in each sack; ten sacks; six thousand tirlils. Much bottles! Three thousand francs, Monsieur. Shall I open him?"
The tourist cast a dismayed glance over the sacks, gently heaving with life.
[ILLUSTRATION: Hadrian's Inscription]