Other
ten-year-old ragamuffins tried to call our attention to some sort of
sleight-of-hand with poor downy little chickens. Grave, turbaned, and
polite Indians squatted cross-legged at our feet, begging to give us a
look into the future by means of the only genuine hall-marked Yogi-ism;
a troupe of acrobats went energetically and hopefully through quite a
meritorious performance a few feet away; a deftly triumphant juggler did
very easily, and directly beneath our watchful eyes, some really
wonderful tricks. A butterfly-gorgeous swarm of insinuating smiling
peddlers of small things dangled and spread their wares where they
thought themselves most sure of attention. Beyond our own little group
we saw slowly passing in the lighted street outside the portico the
variegated and picturesque loungers. Across the way a phonograph bawled;
our stringed orchestra played "The Dollar Princess;" from somewhere over
in the dark and mysterious alleyways came the regular beating of a
tom-tom. The magnificent and picturesque town car with its gaudy
ragamuffins swayed by in train of its diminutive mule.
Suddenly our persistent and amusing _entourage_ vanished in all
directions. Standing idly at the portico was a very straight, black
Soudanese. On his head was the usual red fez; his clothing was of trim
khaki; his knees and feet were bare, with blue puttees between; and
around his middle was drawn close and smooth a blood-red sash at least a
foot and a half in breadth.
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