"Lord," said the djinn in pained surprise, "this was a concert of music in thine honor such as delighted the ear of the great Caliph Haroun Alraschid."
"Aaron 'oo? Never 'eard of the bloke, but 'e must 'ave 'ad a queer taste in music. Any'ow there's no need to kick up such a blinkin' row about it. Very nice of you an' all that, but you're bein' too 'olesale again. My ears is singin' now—let alone Mr. Grant 'avin' near busted me ear-drum." He caressed his injured member again.
Eustace, who only half comprehended this harangue, but gathered that his unaccountable master was once more finding unexpected faults in his arrangements, said nothing.
"Look 'ere, Alf," suggested Bill suddenly, "'adn't you better let some o' these pore blighters get up? The blood'll be running into their 'eads something 'orrid."
Alf addressed himself to the prostrate crowds. "'Ere," he said in diffident tones, "you can get up now." Not a soul moved.
"Squad!" said Bill loudly, in the formula sacred to the use of the army instructor in physical training. "On the feet—UP!"
The assembly remained prostrate.
"The blinkin' 'eathens don't understand English, that's what it is," said Alf with sudden enlightenment. "You tell 'em, Eustace."
The djinn uttered one guttural, staccato syllable. In a moment the multi-colored crowd had melted away, and the great house began to hum with life. In every direction slaves could be seen, each engrossed in his or her duties. Alf, master of all he surveyed, felt for the first time the full weight of his responsibilities.