“You are a friend of Sareef Ka-heel?” he breaks in, eyin’ me suspicious.
“Once removed,” says I; “but it amounts to the same thing. Now where is he?”
“For a friend—well, I know not,” says the old boy, kind of hesitatin’. Then, with another shrug, he makes up his mind. “So it shall be. Come. You shall see the Sareef.”
At that he beckons me to follow and starts towards the back. I went through one dark room, expectin’ to feel a knife in my ribs every minute, and then we goes through another. Next thing I knew we’re out in a little back yard, half full of empty cases and crates. In the middle of a clear space is a big brown tent, with the flap pinned back.
“Here,” says the old gent, “your friend, the Sareef Ka-heel!”
Say, for a minute I thought it was a trap he’s springin’ on me; but after I’d looked long enough I see who he’s pointin’ at. The party inside is squattin’ cross-legged on a rug, holdin’ the business end of one of these water bottle pipes in his mouth. He’s wearin’ some kind of a long bath robe, and most of his red hair is concealed by yards of white cloth twisted round his head; but it’s Spotty all right, alive, uncarved, and lookin’ happy and contented.
“Well, for the love of soup!” says I. “What is it, a masquerade?”
“That you, McCabe?” says he. “Come in and—and sit on the floor.”
“Say,” says I, steppin’ inside, “this ain’t the costume you’re going to start for Canada in, is it?”
“Ah, forget Canada!” says he. “I’ve got that proposition beat a mile. Hey, Hazzam,” and he calls to the old pirate outside, “tell Mrs. Cahill to come down and be introduced!”