That Arabs are not niggers did not trouble him at all. He and Charmian went down together repeatedly into the city, interviewed all sorts of odd people.
"I'm out for dancers to-day," he said one morning.
And they set off to "put Algiers through the sieve" for dancing girls. They found painters, and Crayford took them to the Casbah, and to other nooks and corners of the town, to make drawings for him to carry away to New York as a guide to his scenic artist. They got hold of a Fakir, who had drifted from India to North Africa, and Crayford engaged him on the spot to appear in one of the scenes and perform some of his marvels.
"Claude"—the composer was Claude to him now—"can write in something weird to go with it," he said.
And Charmian of course agreed.
It had been decided that the opera should be produced at the New Era Opera House some time in the New Year, if Claude carried out faithfully all the changes which Crayford demanded.
"He will. He has promised to do everything you wish," said Charmian.
"You stand by and see to it, little lady," said Crayford. "Happen when I'm gone, when the slave-driver's gone, eh, he'll get slack, begin to think he knows more about it than I do! He's not too pleased making the changes. I can see that."
"It will be all right, I promise you. Claude isn't so mad as to lose the chance you are offering him."
"It's the chance of a lifetime. I can tell you that."