We met the mamur at the door of the merkaz, and Qway immediately rushed forward to try and kiss his hand. The mamur, however, would have nothing to do with him. Like nearly all the fellahin he backed the winner, and I for the moment had come out on top.
“This man is a traitor, a regular traitor,” said the judge, who had not yet tried him and who had previously told me he was a sportsman; but I had got the best of the deal, and, moreover, was shortly returning to Egypt and might report on him to one of the inspectors; so he determined to show me how an Egyptian official can do justice when he takes off his coat for the job. He bustled in to the office and began arranging the papers fussily on his table. The police officer also came in and prepared to take down the depositions.
Having got things to his satisfaction, the mamur ordered the prisoner to be brought in. He arrived between two wooden-looking policemen.
“Well, traitor, what have you got to say for yourself?” Then, as it occurred to him that he had overlooked one of the formalities, he asked Qway his name.
“Qway, Effendim.”
“Qway what?” asked the mamur irritably.
“Qway Hassan Qway, Your Presence. My grandfather was a Bey.”
“A Bey?” snorted the mamur.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Where did he live?”