The greybeard was obviously disconcerted at this new check to
introductory conversation, but the defeat was only momentary.
"Persia. I should never have taken you for a Persian," he remarked, with
a somewhat aggrieved air.
"I am not," said Crosby; "my father was an Afghan."
"An Afghan!" said the other, smitten into bewildered silence for a
moment. Then he recovered himself and renewed his attack.
"Afghanistan. Ah! We've had some wars with that country; now, I
daresay, instead of fighting it we might have learned something from it.
A very wealthy country, I believe. No real poverty there."
He raised his voice on the word "poverty" with a suggestion of intense
feeling. Crosby saw the opening and avoided it.
"It possesses, nevertheless, a number of highly talented and ingenious
beggars," he said; "if I had not spoken so disparagingly of marvellous
things that have really happened I would tell you the story of Ibrahim
and the eleven camel-loads of blotting-paper. Also I have forgotten
exactly how it ended."
"My own life-story is a curious one," said the stranger, apparently
stifling all desire to hear the history of Ibrahim; "I was not always as
you see me now."
"We are supposed to undergo complete change in the course of every seven
years," said Crosby, as an explanation of the foregoing announcement.
"I mean I was not always in such distressing circumstances as I am at
present," pursued the stranger doggedly.
"That sounds rather rude," said Crosby stiffly, "considering that you are
at present talking to a man reputed to be one of the most gifted
conversationalists of the Afghan border.
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