The next morning Captain Fairweather made up a party, of which Tom was one, to visit the shore. He pulled to the creek leading to the town, and then embarked in a long narrow native boat. Tom inspected it curiously when he had taken his seat.
"They call this boat a bellem," said his father. "It is hewn out of a tree. Something like canoe-riding, isn't it?"
Two lithe, active Arabs shoved the bellem forward with long bamboos, which they thrust against the bottom or the banks of the creek—or perhaps I might better say canal.
When they left the bellem, one of the boatmen went with them as a guide through the town, and first of all through the bazars.
The bazars were well-built structures, vaulted over with brick. But they were dismally dark, being lighted only by very small windows at the top. A large trade in grain was in progress. They saw thousands of tons of wheat in open spaces, the heaps being covered over with mats.
"Do they only trade in grain here?" Tom asked.
"No, but the season for the grain trade comes first; then comes the wool trade, and later on the trade in dates. First one thing and then another."
As they walked out, Mr. Jollytarre said to the guide: "What dirty streets! Do you ever sweep them?"
"When the Pasha he come," replied the boatman.
"How they do smell!" said Tom, sniffing the air.