"What?" I exclaimed.
"A piece of gold," he panted. "Give it to me, give it to me, quick. I know a place where we can buy bread with it. Real bread—not tickets—food—give me the gold—gold—for bread—we can get-bread. I am starving—gold—bread."
And as he spoke his hoarse voice seemed to grow louder and louder in my ears; the sounds of the street were hushed; a sudden darkness fell; and a wind swept among the trees of the Alley of Victory—moaning—and a thousand, a myriad voices seemed to my ear to take up the cry:
"Gold! Bread! We are starving."
Then I woke up.
XII. Abdul Aziz has His:
An Adventure in the Yildiz Kiosk
"Come, come, Abdul," I said, putting my hand, not unkindly, on his shoulder, "tell me all about it."
But he only broke out into renewed sobbing.
"There, there," I continued soothingly. "Don't cry, Abdul. Look! Here's a lovely narghileh for you to smoke, with a gold mouthpiece. See! Wouldn't you like a little latakia, eh? And here's a little toy Armenian—look! See his head come off—snick! There, it's on again, snick! now it's off! look, Abdul!"
But still he sobbed.