“Freshwater fish,” I exclaimed. “I have lived in this country long, but I did not know such things existed in Algeria!”
He smiled.
“Come and see,” he went on, and, patting my arm, continued his stately promenade down the road.
I went and found a party of Arab chiefs I knew. More solemn greetings. At the beginning of the long meal the fish was served. There was no doubt about it, they were good-sized river-fish, a kind of carp or perch or gudgeon with little taste.
The bash agha smiled at my surprise.
“Would you care to fish them yourself?” he enquired.
“Most certainly,” I replied, “but I have no rod or line with me.”
“I am going to Taguine to-morrow,” he went on, “and if you come here at eight I will give you a lift, and you can lunch there with me. I’ll see that you are supplied with rods and lines.”
I thanked him warmly, wondering in myself what the fishing could be like.
The next morning a cavalier or Arab retainer came round and, entering my room, roused me from my slumbers by telling me that the bash agha awaited me.