Fifty-Two Stories For Girls

by Unknown

As Marjorie heard Mr. Stuart's description of the old town—one of the most ancient in Africa—she was more and more resolved not to waste precious moments in a stupid donkey-ride across the desert. Of course it would be interesting in its way; but she had had excellent views of the desert at several ports, whereas the interior of the old city was a thing altogether new.

"I suppose it's quite a safe place?" she asked carelessly; and Mr. Stuart answered at once:

"Oh, yes, perfectly safe. There are several English families living in it. I lived there a year once. Of course, a stranger lady would not walk about there alone; she might get lost in the perplexing arcades, and Arab towns are never too sweet or too suitable for a lady to go about in by herself. But I shall go and look up my friends there. It's safe enough in that sense."

Marjorie's eyes began to sparkle under their long lashes. A plan was fermenting in her brain.

"I think I shall spend my day there sketching," she said.

"All right; only you mustn't be alone," answered Mr. Stuart in his rather imperious way. "You'd better take Colquhoun and his sister along with you. They're artists, and he knows something of the language and the ways of the Arabs."

A mutinous look came over Marjorie's face. She was not going to join company with Mr. and Miss Colquhoun any more. She had struck up a rather impulsive friendship with them at the outset of the voyage, but now she could not bear them. It was not an exceptional experience with her. She was eager to be friends with all the world; but again and again she discovered that too promiscuous friendship was not always wise. It had been so in this case, and Mr. Colquhoun had gone too far in some of his expressions of admiration. Marjorie had discovered that his views were much too lax to please her. She had resolved to have very little more to do with them for the future. To ask to join them on the morrow, even if they were going sketching, was a thing she could not and would not condescend to.

No, her mind was quickly made up. It was all nonsense about its not being safe. Why, there were English families and agents living in the place, and she would never be silly and lose herself or her head. She would land with the rest. There were about five-and-twenty passengers, and all of them would go ashore, and most would probably go for the donkey-ride into the desert. But she would quietly slip away, and nobody would be anxious. Some would think she had gone with the Colquhouns, who always sketched, or perhaps with Mr. Stuart, who had taken care of her in Tangiers. She was an independent member of society—nobody's especial charge. In the crowded streets of an Arab town nothing would be easier than to slip away from the party soon after landing; and then she would have a glorious day of liberty, wandering about, and making her own studies and sketches, and joining the rest at the appointed time, when they would be going back to the ship.

So Marjorie put her paints and sketching pad up, provided herself with everything needful, and slept happily in her narrow berth, eagerly waiting for the morrow, when so many new wonders would be revealed.

The morning dawned clear and fair, and Marjorie was early on deck, watching with delight the beautiful effects of light as the sun rose over the solemn mountains and lighted up the wide, lonely desert wastes. She could see the caravans of camels coming citywards, could watch the sunbeams falling upon the white walls, domes, and flat roofs of the ancient town. She watched the cargo boats coming out with their loads, and the familiar rattle of the steam crane and the shouts of the men were in her ears. The deck was alive with curious forms of Arabs come to display their wares. A turbaned man in one of the boats below was eagerly offering a splendid-looking, sable-black Nubian for sale, and Mr. Colquhoun was amusing himself by chaffering as though he meant to buy, which he could have done for the sum of eight pounds; for there is a slave market yet in Mogador, where men and women are driven in like cattle to be bought and sold.