“And when shall we leave?” asked the dragoman.
“At noon to-morrow—if Allah willeth it,” replied the old man. “To-night the crew will give a fantasia. Will you tell the passengers.”
“If it be thy will,” responded Boulos, drawing at his excellent cigarette.
“How farest thou this journey?”
“Very well. The Prophet hath given me grace to sell several statuettes and scarabs. The little American hath bought my bronze of Isis.”
“I congratulate thee, O wise one among the infidels,” laughed the old man, raising his left hand to alter the course of the vessel. “Thy bronze hath lain for many moons—eh?”
“Since the last Ramadan. And now, with Allah’s help, I have sold it to the American for a thousand piastres.”
Old Melek the reis grunted, and thoughtfully rolled another cigarette, which he handed unstuck to his friend, the sign of Arab courtesy. Boulos ran his tongue along it, and raising his hand to his fez in thanks, lit it with great gusto, glancing up to the deck where his charges were lolling beneath the awning.
Lola, in white, and wearing her sun-helmet, leaned over the rail and called in her broken English:
“Boulos, when do we arrive at Abu Simbel?”