They were nearly all in Arab costume, and sat cross-legged on two benches which ran down either side of the narrow room. Each smoked a long pipe, and sipped black coffee out of a very diminutive cup, while the host, a half negro, stood beside a charcoal fire, in the darkness of the far interior, attending to an array of miniature tin coffee-pots, which exactly matched the cups in size. A young Moor, with a red fez, sat twanging a little guitar, the body of which was half a cocoa-nut, covered with parchment.
This musician produced very dismal tones from its two strings, but the Arabs seemed content, and sat in silent, not to say dignified, enjoyment of it.
“Eat away now,” whispered Rais to Flaggan, as they entered—“cross yoo legs, look solemn, an’ hold yoos tongue. Me goes git shave.”
Obedient to instructions—as British seamen always are—Ted took his place on one of the narrow benches, and, crossing his legs à la Turk, began with real zest to eat the rolls which his friend had provided for him, and to sip the cup, or thimbleful, of coffee which mine host silently, by order of the same friend, placed at his side.
Meanwhile, Rais Ali submitted himself to the hands of the host, who was also a barber, and had his head and face shaved without soap—though a little cold water was used.
During this operation a boy ran hastily into the café and made an announcement in Arabic, which had the surprising effect of startling the Arabs into undignified haste, and induced Rais Ali to overturn his coffee on the barber’s naked feet, while he seized a towel and dried himself violently.
“What’s to do, old feller?” demanded Flaggan, with a huge bite of bread almost stopping up his mouth.
“De British fleet am in sight!” shrieked Rais Ali.
“Ye don’t mean that?” cried Ted, in his turn becoming excited. “Then it’s time that I was out o’ the city!”
“Yis, away! go to yous cave! Only death for Breetish in Algiers—off! away!”