But now Bab-al Oman, the keeper, a stout and cumbrous soul, coming forth from his storeroom, gazed upon Ibn with mingled astonishment and no little disfavor, for it was not customary to permit any of his customers of the past to beg in here, and as for a singer or story-teller he had never thought of Ibn in that light these many years. He was too old, without the slightest power to do aught but begin in a wheezy voice.
“Hearken,” he called, coming over and laying a hand on him, the while the audience gazed and grinned, “hast thou either anna or rupee wherewith to fulfill thy account in case thou hast either khat or kishr?” The rags and the mummy-like pallor of the old man offended him.
“Do but let him speak,” insisted Hussein the peddler gaily, “or sing,” for he was already feeling the effects of his ease and the restorative power of the plant. “This will be wonderful. By the voices of eleven hundred elephants!”
“Yea, a story,” called Waidi, “or perhaps that of the good Cadi of Taiz and the sacred waters of Jezer!”
“Or of the Cadi of Mecca and the tobacco that was too pure!”
Ibn heard full well and knew the spectacle he was making of himself. The references were all too plain. Only age and want and a depressing feebleness, which had been growing for days, caused him to forget, or prevented, rather, his generating a natural rage and replying in kind. These wretched enemies of his, dogs lower than himself, had never forgiven him that he had been born out of their caste, or, having been so, that he had permitted himself to sink to labor and beg with them. But now his age and weakness were too great. He was too weary to contend.
“O most generous Oman, best of keepers of a mabraz—and thou, O comfortable and honorable guests,” he insisted wheezily, “I have here but one pice, the reward of all my seekings this day. It is true that I am a beggar and that my coverings are rags, yet do but consider that I am old and feeble. This day and the day before and the day before that—”
“Come, come!” said Oman restlessly and feeling that the custom and trade of his mabraz were being injured, “out! Thou canst not sing and thou canst not tell a tale, as thou well knowest. Why come here when thou hast but a single pice wherewith to pay thy way? Beg more, but not here! Bring but so much as half a rupee, and thou shalt have service in plenty!”
“But the pice I have here—may not I—O good sons of the Prophet, a spray of khat, a cup of kishr—suffer me not thus be cast forth! ‘—and the poor and the son of the road!’ Alms—alms—in the name of Allah!”
“Out, out!” insisted Oman gently but firmly. “So much as ten anna, and thou mayst rest here; not otherwise.”