piercing eyes, and his daughter with streaming hair; lastly, the widow
or time-worn wife of the poor Mohammedan, who must needs market for
herself. Her wrinkled face and care-worn look tell a different tale
from the pompous self-content of the merchant by her side, who drives
as hard a bargain as she does. In his hand he carries a palmetto-leaf
basket, already half full, as with slippered feet he carefully picks
his way among puddles and garbage.

"Good morning, O my master; God bless thee!" exclaims the stall-keeper
as his customer comes in sight.

Sáïd el Faráji has to buy cloth of the merchant time and time again,
so makes a point of pleasing one who can return a kindness.

"No ill, praise God; and thyself, O Sáïd?" comes the cheery reply;
then, after five minutes' mutual inquiry after one another's
household, horses and other interests, health and general welfare,
friend Sáïd points out the daintiest articles on his stall, and in the
most persuasive of tones names his "lowest price."

All the while he is sitting cross-legged on an old box, with his
scales before him.

"What? Now, come, I'll give you _so_ much," says the merchant, naming
a price slightly less than that asked.

"Make it _so_ much," exclaims Sáïd, even more persuasively than
before, as he "splits the difference."

"Well, I'll give you _so_ much," offering just a little less than this