"Dead ringer for one."
"Maybe it's Ben Ali——"
"No, he ain't. I know Ben Ali, and this ain't him."
"That tin horn won't show up among these tents in a hurry, Burton," said McGlory. "He knows he'll get what's coming, if he does."
"Then," continued Burton, "it's dollars to dimes it's Aurung Zeeb."
"Not him, neither," averred the canvasman. "This bloke wears a red tablecloth and carries a basket. Looks ter me like he had somethin' he wanted ter sell."
"I'll go and talk with him. Come on, Matt, you and McGlory."
Matt, McGlory, and Carl followed the showman under the canvas and into the calliope "lean-to." Here there was a chocolate-colored individual answering the canvasman's description. But he was not wearing the red tablecloth. Instead, he had spread it on the ground and was sitting on it. In front of him was a round, flat-topped basket, and in his hands was a queer-looking musical instrument.
"You want to see me?" demanded the showman, as he and the boys came to a halt in front of the Hindoo.
The latter swept his eyes over the little group.