The consul had previously presented himself at Court—as did all the other consuls—to pay his respects to the new Dey, and on a subsequent occasion had made an effort to press a point which had always been a matter of deep interest with him, namely, the bringing about of peace between the Algerines and the Portuguese. There were many Portuguese slaves in the town and neighbourhood at the time, and several officers of that country dwelt there, exempt from the duty of labouring like beasts of burden at the works on the walls and about the harbour, solely in virtue of annual tribute being paid by their friends. The former Dey, Achmet, had declined to oblige his friend Colonel Langley by making peace with Portugal, on the ground that he could not forego the advantages resulting from a state of warfare. The new Dey, Omar, was still less capable of being influenced by considerations of humanity.
“What would you have?” he said, when Colonel Langley spoke to him on the subject; “my people are brigands, and I am their chief! If I make peace with Portugal, it will be absolutely necessary that I should declare war with America, merely to keep my people employed!”
This was at all events candid, and the consul felt that it would be vain to press the matter he had so much at heart as long as Omar occupied the throne.
On his way down to the Marina, where the divan referred to was to be held, he met Blindi Bobi looking rather disconsolate. Having an hour or more to spare, he resolved to have a chat with him.
“Well, Bobby, my boy,” said the consul kindly, for the eccentric interpreter was a favourite, “you seem sad. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Not wi’ me, nohow,” responded Bobi, shaking his head. “Nuffin never wrong wi’ me. Always too well. Health to the mast-head—more nor I knows wat to do wid. Wishes I could die, I do—sometimes.”
“I grieve to hear that,” said the consul earnestly, for he saw that the man was in no jesting humour. “Let me know what distresses you.”
“Sidi Cadua,” said Bobi.
“What! the father of poor Ashweesha, widow of my late friend Achmet Dey?” said the consul.
“Yis. Hush! Omar Dey—de divl,” growled Bobi in a low tones, “gits the berry stones to listen an’ reports wat peepil say.”