"Good, by Allah! That was well done," said the tschorbadji, with his
aristocratic smile. "You served my son as an umbrella. I thank you
for it, Mohammed, and will reward you. A new mantle shall be brought
you, for I perceive that your own is torn and old."

"I thank you, master. It is good enough for me. This mantle is an
inheritance from my father. Mother preserved it for ten years, and
now I wear it, and wear it with pride, as a souvenir of my father.
Thanks for your kind offer."

"Then take the money," said the tschorbadji. "You see I still hold
it in my hand."

"Thanks, master. I have no need of the money."

"You must take it, Mohammed," said Osman, gently. "As I told you
before, father has forgotten to add for what purpose he gives it.
You are to go and hear the new scha-er, the story-teller. Do you
know him already?"

"No, Osman, I do not. What of this scha-er?"

"I have heard him much spoken of," replied Osman, gently. "He is a
rival of the old scha-er; Mehsed. You know the old one always sits
in the middle of the market-place, on a stone, and tells the people
stories of the olden time, and of the magnificence of the Turkish
Empire. Now a new storyteller has come, from Constantinople it is
said, and people say his stories are very beautiful. But he does not
seat himself on a stone in the middle of the market, but in the wide
hall of a store. There he has hired a corner, and there he sits.