Just above their heads they read a sign advertising an Arab card-writer, and when Philip returned they began a search for this gentleman, who promised a card in English and Arabic for five cents. It proved to be a difficult matter to find him. Inquiring upon one side of the street, they were directed to the other; and, repeating the question there, were politely sent back again; but soon they caught sight of a ring of people near the middle of the street, gazing down toward the pavement, and there, within, sat the writer.
Philip pressed forward with a slip torn from his note-book, on which he had written plainly, “Philip Rodman,” putting below, “Please write this name in English and Arabic.”
When his turn came, the sharp-featured little writer raised his fezzed head from gazing down upon the inlaid box which served him as a desk, and said:
“You want-a me to write for you—yes?”
“Yes, please,” Philip answered.
So the scribe began, like a school-boy reciting his lesson:
“Pheelipe. P, h, i, l, i, and p. Pheelipe. Rodermahn—I write him pretty, in Engleesh, yes; and I vill shade him, yes. R, a capeetal R, o, d, m, a, n. Pheelipe Rodermahn. There. Now, what ceety?”
“Now write it in Arabic, please,” said Philip, a little embarrassed by the crowd.
“Pretty soon; in a meenute. You vait. First, what ceety,—vere you leeve?”