“But who ever heard of a white Moor?” objected Ted.
“Oh, lots of ’em—’alf-castes, almost white as you,” said Rais.
“But I ain’t got a shaved skull with a top knot,” returned the seaman, still objecting.
“Nebber mind; sailors of France, Denmark, an’ odder places what hav consuls here, when waitin’ for ship carry dem home comes here for fun—”
“Ay, but they don’t come disguised as Moors,” said Flaggan, “and I niver was inside a Turkish bath before. Don’t know more nor a child what to do.”
“Yoo don’ go in bath dressed—go naked,” returned Rais, growing impatient. “Do noting in bath, only let ’em do what dey pleases to yoo.”
“Very good, plaze yersilf, Ally Babby,” said Ted, resignedly plunging his arms into the cistern; “only remimber, I give ye fair warnin’, av the spalpeens attempts to take me prisoner, I’ll let fly into their breadbaskets right an’ left, an’ clear out into the street, naked or clothed, no matter which,—for I’ve said it wance, an’ I means to stick to it, they’ll niver take Ted Flaggan alive.”
“All right,” returned Rais Ali, “yoo wash yours faces an’ holds your tongue.”
After removing as much as possible of the brown earth from his visage and limbs, the seaman drew the hood of his burnous well over his face, and—having assiduously studied the gait of Moors—strode with Oriental dignity into the outer court, or apartment, of the bath, followed his friend into an unoccupied corner and proceeded to undress.
“Musha! it’s like a house-full of Turkish corpses,” whispered Ted as he surveyed the recumbent figures in white around him.