the way who is making up to
Baya. That newspaper, the Akbar, told the yarn t'other day, and
all Algiers is laughing over it even now. It is so funny for that
steeplejack up aloft in his crow's-nest to make declarations of love
under your very nose to the little beauty whilst singing out his
prayers, and making appointments with her between bits of the Koran."

"Why, then, they're all scamps in this country!" howled the unlucky
Tarasconian.

Barbassou snapped his fingers like a philosopher.

"My dear lad, you know, these new countries are 'rum!' But, anyhow, if
you'll believe me, you'd best cut back to Tarascon at full speed."

"It's easy to say, 'Cut back.' Where's the money to come from? Don't you
know that I was plucked out there in the desert?"

"What does that matter?" said the captain merrily. "The Zouave sails
tomorrow, and if you like I will take you home. Does that suit you,
mate? Ay? Then all goes well. You have only one thing to do. There are
some bottles of fizz left, and half the pie. Sit you down and pitch in
without any grudge."

After the minute's wavering which self-respect commanded, the
Tarasconian chose his course manfully. Down he sat, and they touched
glasses. Baya, gliding down at that chink, sang the finale of "Marco la
Bella," and the jollification was prolonged deep into the night.

About 3 A.M., with a light head but a heavy foot, our good Tarasconian
was returning from seeing his friend the captain off when, in passing
the mosque, the remembrance of his muezzin and his practical jokes made
him laugh, and instantly a capital idea of revenge flitted through his
brain.

The door was open. He entered, threaded long corridors hung with mats,
mounted and kept on mounting till he finally found himself in a little
oratory, where an openwork iron lantern swung from the ceiling, and
embroidered an odd pattern in shadows upon the blanched walls.

There sat the crier on a divan, in his large turban and white pelisse,
with his Mostaganam pipe, and a bumper of absinthe before him, which he
whipped up in the orthodox manner, whilst awaiting the hour to call true
believers to prayer. At view of Tartarin, he dropped his pipe in terror.

"Not a word, knave!" said the Tarasconian, full of his project. "Quick!
Off with turban and coat!"

The Turkish priest-crier tremblingly handed over his outer garments, as
he would have done with anything else. Tartarin donned them, and gravely
stepped out upon the