“Come,” said Melton, plucking Guy’s arm, “we will find a quiet place where we can talk in peace.”
The crowd made way for them, but before they had taken half a dozen steps the big Arab staggered forward and seized Guy by the hand.
“You brave man,” he cried. “Makar never forget.”
He kept on with many protestations of gratitude until Guy tried to withdraw in embarrassment.
“Wait,” said the Arab. “Come along. Me tell you something.”
He fairly dragged Guy back to the entrance of the tent where none could hear, and bending low he whispered in his ear:
“Berbera no place for Inglis man this day. Better go away, quick. Heed what Makar tell you. Now go.”
He fairly pushed Guy from him, and the latter, joining Melton, who had witnessed the scene with the greatest curiosity, led the way out into the street.
A curious crowd followed them closely for some distance, and not a word was spoken until they had turned off into a side avenue lined with low mud buildings.
“Now,” said Melton quickly, “I need not tell you, my dear fellow, what a pleasant surprise this meeting has been, but all explanation must be deferred to a more suitable time. You have made a friend and an enemy today, for Makar Makalo is the most powerful Arab in the whole Somali country, while that big negro is Oko Sain, the head chief of all the Gallas who dwell two hundred miles back from the coast. What did Makar tell you?”