"What is your will, Effendi?"
"Is this my servant?" Colonel Spottiswoode inquired.
"If you like. Fudl has recommended him."
The inquiry lingered upon the Colonel's face so undecidedly that Mahomet dived into the conjurer's pocket of his robe. He might have produced a white rabbit or a pianola, which would not have surprised the Colonel. But he didn't. He merely unwrapped a handful of letters, well-worn, breaking into creases, and gaping at the folds.
"Dragoman for American Effendi in Noo-york; this that Effendi he say: I, Mahomet Mansour talk the Ingleese very good; honest man, he say, I, Mahomet Mansour."
Mahomet submitted this document as Exhibit No. 1. Colonel Spottiswoode put on his specs and examined—all things in this country interested him. The Britons had hired so many servants, and had disproved so many bogus eulogies that their faith grew censorious.
The Colonel indulged his curiosity concerning these letters wherein various American tourists extolled Mahomet Mansour as dragoman, interpreter, purchasing agent, washerwoman, cook, camel-driver, first aid to the injured—all the versatilities of Egypt.
"One great pacha, see! Americain prince; him
