“Well indeed,” said Mamba once again, falsely but ceremonially.
“May you live to grow old!” resumed Soot. “And you have arrived safely? Come in. Where are you going?”
“I’m going yonder—westward,” replied Mamba, with charming conventional vagueness, as he sat down on the mat.
“But it appears to me,” said Ancient Soot, passing from the region of compliment into that of fact, and looking somewhat closely at his friend, “it seems to me that you have been hurt.”
Mamba now explained the exact state of the case, said that he required a good long rest, after that a hearty meal, then a lamba and a little money, for he had been despoiled of everything he had possessed by the furious crowd that so nearly killed him.
His kind host was quite ready to assist him in every way. In a few minutes he was sound asleep in a little chamber on the rafters, where he could rest without much risk of disturbance or discovery.
All next day he remained in hiding. When it began to grow dusk his host walked with him through the streets and through the gates, thus rendering his passage less likely to be observed—for this particular Ancient Soot was well-known in the town.
“I will turn now. What go you to the coast for?” asked his friend, when about to part.
“You would laugh at me if I told you,” said Mamba.
“Then tell me not,” returned his friend, with much delicacy of feeling, “for I would be sorry to laugh at my friend.”