"Come along, Mr. Scarlett!" I shouted, and tried to make him come out.
"I durs'n't yet, sir; I'll wait till it's dark."
"What on earth are you frightened of—now?"
"Of being seen, sir; I durs'n't show myself. Look at those boats there, sir," he said, pointing through the cabin door at some native boats which were passing—such boats were passing at all hours of the day. "He might be there."
"Who? Not that decrepit old chap we saw this afternoon?"
"No," he said, clutching the side of his bunk and looking half-mad; "Jassim! Jassim himself!"
"Jassim? You haven't seen him, have you?" I asked, startled.
"Yes," he groaned; "and he saw me! We came face to face in that crowd outside the mosque. I knew him directly, and he knew me—I'll swear it."
"You're mistaken, man; it couldn't have been he."
Mr. Scarlett shook his head. "No, no! I recollect his face as though it was yesterday—he has a scar on his upper lip, too. No, no! I couldn't make a mistake! He shot out an arm, felt above my elbow, then turned away without a word."