"Stop, stop," I pleaded. "I don't understand."
"Why surely," said the little man, in evident astonishment, "it is plain enough. What would you do in Canada? When your ministers—as I think you call them—fail and no longer enjoy your support, do you not send them bowstrings?"
"Never," I said. "They go out of office, but—"
"And they do not disembowel themselves on their retirement? Have they not that privilege?"
"Never!" I said. "What an idea!"
"The ways of the infidel." said the little Sultan, calmly resuming his pipe, "are beyond the compass of the true intelligence of the Faithful. Yet I thought it was so even as here. I had read in your newspapers that after your last election your ministers were buried alive—buried under a landslide, was it not? We thought it—here in Turkey—a noble fate for them."
"They crawled out," I said.
"Ishmillah!" ejaculated Abdul. "But go, Toomuch. And listen, thou also—for in spite of all thou hast served me well—shalt have a bowstring."
"Oh, master, master," cried Toomuch, falling on his knees in gratitude and clutching the sole of Abdul's slipper. "It is too kind!"
"Nay, nay," said the Sultan. "Thou hast deserved it. And I will go further. This stranger, too, my governess, this professor, bring also for the professor a bowstring, and a two-bladed knife! All Canada shall rejoice to hear of it. The students shall leap up like young lambs at the honour that will be done. Bring the knife, Toomuch; bring the knife!"