"Mine isn't," he whimpered, "but it doesn't matter," and his face began to crinkle up with renewed weeping. "Call me anything you like. It doesn't matter. Anyway I'd rather be called Abdul than be called a W-W-War Lord and a G-G-General when they won't let me have any say at all—"
And with that the little Sultan burst into unrestrained crying.
"Abdul," I said firmly, "if you don't stop crying, I'll go and fetch one of the Bashi-Bazouks to take you away."
The little Sultan found his voice again.
"There aren't any Bub-Bub-Bashi-Bazouks left," he sobbed.
"None left?" I exclaimed. "Where are they gone?"
"They've t-t-taken them all aw-w-way—"
"Who have?"
"The G-G-G-Germans," sobbed Abdul. "And they've sent them all to P-P-P-Poland."
"Come, come, Abdul," I said, straightening him up a little as he sat. "Brace up! Be a Turk! Be a Mohammedan! Don't act like a Christian."