Jeremy insisted on my raising them, to the accompaniment of what he considered suitable comment on their size, turning his "behind end" meanwhile toward Yussuf Dakmar.
Grim chuckled and caught my eye.

Yussuf Dakmar had walked straight into temptation, and was trying to search Jeremy's pockets from the rear--no easy matter, for he had to discover them first in the loose folds of the Arab costume.
Suddenly Jeremy's mood changed.

He became suspicious, stood up, resumed his seat--and glared at Yussuf Dakmar, who retired into his corner and tried to seem unconscious of the game.
"I believe you are a thief--one of those light-fingered devils from El-Kalil!" said Jeremy suddenly, after about three minutes' silence.
"I believe you have stolen my letter! Like the saint's ass, you are a clever devil, aren't you?
Nevertheless, you are like a man without fingernails, whose scratching does him no good! Your labour was in vain.

Give me back the letter, or by Allah I will turn you upside down!" Yussuf Dakmar denied the accusation with all the fervour that a blackguard generally does use when, for once, he is consciously innocent.
"By the Beard of the Prophet and on my honor I swear to you that I haven't touched your letter! I don't know where it is." "Show me the Prophet's beard!" commanded Jeremy.

"Show me your honor!" "You talk like a madman! How can I show either ?" "Then how can you swear by them?
Father of easy words and evil deeds, give me the letter back!" Yussuf Dakmar appealed to me as presumably responsible for Jeremy.
"You saw, effendi, didn't you?
I tried to help him.