man wanted something; but Captain Kettle
did not choose definitely to ask for his wishes. Over-curiosity is not a
thing that pays with Orientals. Stolid indifference, on the other hand,
may earn easy admiration.

But at last the man took his courage in a firmer grip, and came up from
the _Parakeet's_ lower deck, where the hands were working cargo, and
advanced under the bridge deck awnings to Captain Kettle's long chair
and salaamed low before him.

Kettle seemed to see the man for the first time. He looked up from the
accounts he was laboring at. "Well?" he said, curtly.

It was clear the Arab had no English. It was clear also that he feared
being watched by his fellow countrymen in the lighter which was
discharging date bags alongside. He manoeuvred till the broad of his
back covered his movements, materialized somehow or other a scrap of
paper from some fold of his burnous, dropped this into Kettle's lap
without any perceptible movement of either his arms or hands, and then
gave another stately salaam and moved away to the place from which
he had come.

"If you are an out-of-work conjuror," said Kettle to the retreating
figure, "you've come to the wrong place to get employment here."

The Arab passed out of sight without once turning his head, and Kettle
glanced down at the screw of paper which lay on his knees, and saw on it
a scrawl of writing.

"Hullo," he said, "postman, were you; not conjuror? I didn't expect any
mail here. However, let's see. Murray's writing, by James!" he muttered,
as he flattened out the grimy scrap of paper, and then he whistled-with
surprise and disgust as he read.

"_Dear Captain_," the letter ran. "_I've got into the deuce
of a mess, and if you can bear a hand to pull me out, it
would be a favor I should never forget. I got caught up that
side street to the left past the mosque, but they covered my
head with a cloth directly after, and hustled me on for half
an hour, and where I am now, the dickens only knows. It's a
cellar. But perhaps bearer may know, who's got my watch. The
trouble was about a woman, a pretty little piece who I was
photographing. You see_--"

And here the letter broke off.

"That's the worst of these fancy, high-toned mates," Kettle grumbled.
"What does he want to go ashore for at a one-eyed hole like this? There
are no saloons--and besides he isn't a drinking man. Your new-fashioned
mate isn't. There are no gi