But I was in luck.  I have often noticed, so that it has become almost an article of creed with me, that luck invariably breaks that way.  It almost never turns up blind.  You sit down and wait for luck, and it all goes to the other fellow.  But start to use your wits, even clumsily, and the luck comes along and squanders itself on you.

“He is certainly from Damascus,” laughed one of the customers.  “The price is a half-piastre in Damascus at the meaner shops.”

I did not know anything about Damascus then—­had never been there; but from that minute it never entered the mind of one of those men to doubt that Damascus was my home-city, so easily satisfied by trifling suggestions is the unscientific human.  Yussuf went back to his charcoal stove grumbling to himself in Turkish.

But there was still one question in doubt.  They seemed satisfied that I was really deaf and dumb, but in that land of countless mission schools and alien speech there is always a chance that even children know a word or two of French.  They tested Suliman with simple questions, such as who was his mother and where was he born; but he did not need to act that part, he was utterly ignorant of French.

So they proceeded to ignore the two of us and turn their political acrimony loose in French, discussing the maddest, most unmoral schemes with the gusto of small boys playing pirates.  There seemed to be almost as many rival political parties as men in the room.  The only approach to unity was when they agreed to accuse and destroy.  As for constructive agreement, they had none, and every one’s suggestion for improvement was sneered at by all the rest.  They were not even agreed about the Zionists, except hating them; they quarreled about what would be the best way to take advantage of them before wiping them out of existence.

But they all saw exquisite humour in the item of news that Eisernstein had taken so to heart.

“That was Noureddin Ali’s idea!  He is a genius!  To accuse the Zionists of offering two million pounds for the Dome of the Rock—­ah! who else could have thought of it!  The story has spread all through Jerusalem, and is on its way to the villages.  In two days it will be common gossip from Damascus to Beersheba.  In a week it will be known from end to end of Egypt; then Arabia; then India!  Ho!  When the Indian Moslems get the news—­the Indian troops in Palestine will send it by mail—­then what a furor!  Then what anger!  That was finesse!  That was true statesmanship!  Never was a shrewder genius than Noureddin Ali!”

“Don’t shout his name too loud,” said somebody.  “The Administration suspects him already.”

“Bah!  Who in this room is a friend of the Administration?  The Administrator is a broken shard; the British will summon him home for inefficiency.  Besides, there is only one man in Jerusalem of whom Noureddin is in the least afraid—­that Major Grim, the American.  And whoever would give the price of a cup of coffee for a lease of the life of Major Grim in the circumstances would do better to toss the money to the first beggar he meets!”