Page:Harris Dickson--Old Reliable in Africa.djvu/176

 Within the Sirdar's garden the African stars blinked down upon a table brilliantly set in sandy spaces of the night. White lamps of Heaven shone through a lacery of palms—street lamps in the City of Jewels, which is the Capital of the Country of Delight. With the calm of eternity they gazed at evanescent candles flickering upon the stranger-people's board. Silver glittered, crystal sparkled, and soft-footed Nubians moved like phantoms across the hush of Eastern rugs. Dinner had almost ended, a dinner of men, eight men who spoke in low-toned monosyllables, men who felt the somber oppressiveness of Africa. The Nubians began placing queer-shaped glasses amongst the candles, glasses filled with parti-colored liqueurs. Cigarette boxes appeared, and matches; guests negligently shoved back their chairs and meditative columns of smoke arose; some curled downward amongst the shadows, and some floated upward through the shine.

Zack Foster, Effendi, dined in lonely grandeur at a table apart, with a Nubian servant of his own. Zack dined diligently. Said slunk outside along the darkened avenue and peeped over the mud wall to see what his master was about. Then he scurried back and reported to other Arabs beyond the gates, "He breaks no bread with the unbeliever. He eats alone. May Allah burn my eyes if I speak not truth."