I had been smoking cigarettes, but found the habit extravagant, as Abdul appreciated them even more than I did. One morning I woke up to see him making a cache in his round cotton cap. I kept quiet until he came nearer, and then I grabbed his hat. It was as I thought, and about ten cigarettes rolled on the floor. I looked sternly at Abdul. He was due to wither up and confess. Instead he broke first into a seraphic grin and then roared with laughter. "Oh, very funny, very, very funny," he said between his paroxysms. Now what could I say after that? I was beaten and I had to admit it, but I decided that I would smoke a pipe. To this end I gave Abdul ten piastres and sent him out to buy me some tobacco. He arrived back in about an hour with two tins worth each eight piastres. "Me quais?" he asked expectantly. "Well, you are pretty hot stuff," I admitted, "but how did you do it?"
Abdul held up one tin.
"Me buy this one," he said solemnly; "this one" (holding up the other one) "got it!"
"What do you mean, 'got it'?"
"Jus' got it," was all the answer I could get. Then to crown the performance he produced two piastres change. Could the genii of the Arabian Nights have done better?
I was in that hospital for three months, and I verily believe that if it had not been for Abdul I should have been in three months more. He had his own way of doing things and people, but he modelled himself unconsciously on some personality half-way between Florence Nightingale and Fagin's most promising pupil. The day I was to go he cleaned my tunic buttons and helmet badge with my tooth-brush and paste and brought them proudly to me for thanks. And I thanked him.
The last I saw of Abdul was as I drove away in the ambulance. A pathetic figure in a white robe stood out on the balcony and mopped his eyes with his cotton cap, and as he took it off his head there fell to the ground half-a-dozen crushed cigarettes. It was a typical finale.