"I know all about ivory—I shoot, trade ivory along o' Tippoo Tib an'
Stanley. You engage my services, all very well."
"Go and tell Tippoo Tib we want to see him. If he confirms what you say, perhaps we'll take you on," said Fred.
"Tell Tippoo Tib? Ha-ha! You want to find his buried ivory—that it?
All white men wanting that! All right, I go tell him! I come again!"
"Come back here, you fat rascal!" ordered Fred. "What do you mean about buried ivory? What buried ivory?"
Hassan's face lost some of its transcendent cheek. Even the dyed beard seemed to wilt.
"What you wanting?" he asked. "Hunt, trade, travel—what your business?"
"Fish!" Fred answered genially.
"Samaki?"
"Yes—samaki—fish!"
Having no experience of Arabs, and part-Arabs, I wondered what on earth Fred could be driving at. But Hassan wondered still more, and that was the whole point. He stood agape, looking from one to the other of us, his fat good-natured face an interrogation mark.