"Between friends," went on the steward, "what was the name of the jail superintendent from whose pocket this money—fell?"
Bugs laughed. "English names are difficult to me—I am from the hills. But I think the name of that Englishman was McGregor!"
"That's not English," growled the steward. "That's decent Scotch, ye puggle! Would ye call a Bengali by the name of an Afghan chief?"
Bugs bowed gravely."How many rupees for the money?"
"How about eleven?" asked the steward.
The change in Bugs was startling. One moment a polite if somewhat dirty Mohametan, the next a fierce Afghan looking for trouble. No race in the world can beat the Afghan at bargaining, who proudly claim descent from the Children of Israel.
"Fifteen," amended the Scot quickly.
He was no coward, but he wanted no trouble with Bugs and his fierce friends. It is not generally mentioned, but a small steamer was once captured by her pilgrim passengers.
"Sixteen!" said Bugs with cold ferocity.
That happened to be the correct exchange. The Scot growled agreement.
"What do you want to buy?"
Bugs smacked his lips over a list of the sweetest and stickiest things he could think of. Such are very dear to the Afghan stomach. And coffee. A sovereign will buy a lot of such things on a pilgrim ship.
The steward began to fill a clean flour sack with the stuff. . . . The warm salt wind blew into the storeroom.
"The coffee is in the lazarette below," said the steward. "Wait here while I get it."
Bugs, who knew the ways of storerooms, sat down on his haunches, and the steward went down the ladder. With the quickness of a conjuror Bugs brought out a metal hypodermic case from among his clothes. From among the tubes containing various drugs he selected a tube of morphine sulfate. He hid this in his turban, and returned the case to the belt next to his skin.
The steward came puffing and perspiring up the ladder. "Those blasted boys never stow things where I can find them!" he growled.
The coffee was terrible, but that did not matter, as Afghans love it so strong that its only flavor is its bitterness. And Bugs had accomplished the reason for his generous spending. He had the morphine in his turban. On deck among the pilgrims he dared not take the chance of selecting the drug. There was no privacy among the pilgrims, and no lights were allowed at night. . . .
"Salaam, McGregor," said Bugs politely.
"Lindsay is die name, but salaam, all the same," replied the steward.
Bugs went back to his friends. Much merriment resulted. Purple shadows were spreading over the Arabian Sea when that popular story-teller, Ben Mohamet, began passing around die coffee he had so gratuitously prepared. The officer on watch had sent a secunnie [quartermaster] to tell the pilgrims that all lights and cooking-fires must be out in an hour. The kassab [native storekeeper] I had given out the rations guaranteed by die steamship company. It was a restive scene of twilight when Bugs, in due order and ceremony, presented coffee to the blind, then to the cripples, and last to the deaf mute.
"Now you big roughnecks," he shouted to the hale and very hearty remainder, "take your coffee! Are you not weaned, that I must feed you? Come on—fill your
