at the bazaar."

But in order to look one had to reach. We left the great heavy-beamed
hotel that had once been Tippoo Tib's residence, but were stopped in
the outer doorway by a crowd of native boys, each with a brass plate on
his arm.

"Guide, sah!--Guide, sah!--My name 'McPhairson, sah!--My name Jones,
sah!--My name Johnson, sah! Guide to all the sights, sah!"

They were as persistent and evilly intentioned as a swarm of flies, and
bold enough to strike back when anybody kicked them. While we wrestled
and swore, but made no headway, we were accosted by a Greek, who seemed
from long experience able to pass through them without striking or
being struck. We were not left in doubt another second as to whether
our friend Hassan had dallied on the way, and held his tongue or not.

"Good day, gentlemen! I hear you are after fish! Hah! That is a good
story to tell to Arabs! You mean fishing for information, eh? Ha-hah!"

He turned on the swarm of boys, who still yelled and struggled about
our legs.

"Imshi!* Voetsak!** Enenda zako!*** Kuma nina, wewe!**** In a minute
he had them all scattering, for only innocence and inexperience attract
the preying youth of Zanzibar. "Now, gentlemen, my name is
Coutlass--Georges Coutlass. Have a drink with me, and let me tell you
something."

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