The stenographer was humming to himself: 

  Bagdad is a town in Turkey
  On a camel tall and jerky.

“Are both sides ready to try this case?” inquired Judge Wetherell, choking a yawn.  He was a very stout judge and he could not help yawning.

Deputy Assistant District Attorney Pepperill and Mr. Tutt rose in unison, declaring that they were.  At or about this same moment the small door in the rear of the room opened and an officer appeared, leading in Kasheed Hassoun.  He was an imposing man, over six feet in height, of dignified carriage, serious mien, and finely chiseled features.  Though he was dressed as a European there was nevertheless something indefinably suggestive of the East in the cut of his clothes; he wore no waistcoat and round his waist was wound a strip of crimson cloth.  His black eyes glinted through lowering brows, wildly, almost fiercely, and he strode haughtily beside his guard like some unbroken stallion of the desert.

“Well, you may as well proceed to select a jury,” directed the court, putting on his glasses and studying his copy of Al-Hoda with interest.  Presently he beckoned to Pepperill.

“Have you seen this?” he asked.

“No, Your Honor.  What is it?”

“It’s a newspaper published by these people,” explained His Honor.  “Rather amusing, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t know they had any special newspaper of their own,” admitted Pepperill.

“They’ve got eight right in New York,” interjected the stenographer.

“I notice that this paper is largely composed of advertisements,” commented Wetherell.  “But the advertisers are apparently scattered all over the world—­Chicago; Pittsburgh; Canton; Winnipeg; Albuquerque; Brooklyn; Tripoli; Greenville, Texas; Pueblo; Lawrence, Massachusetts; Providence, Rhode Island; Fall River; Detroit—­”

“Here’s one from Roxbury, Massachusetts, and another from Mexico City,” remarked the clerk delightedly.

“And here’s one from Paris, France,” added the stenographer.  “Say!  Some travelers!”

“Well, go on getting the jury,” said the judge, yawning again and handing the paper to the clerk.

At that moment Mr. Salim Zahoul, the interpreter procured by Mr. Pepperill, approached, bowed and, twisting his purple mustache, addressed the court:  “Your Excellence:  I haf to zay dat dees papaire eet haf articles on zis affair—­ze memkaha—­zat are not diplomatique.”

Judge Wetherell blinked at him.

“Who’s this man?” he demanded.

“That’s the interpreter,” explained W.M.P.

“Interpreter!” answered the court.  “I can’t understand a word he says!”

“He was the best I could get,” apologized Pepperill, while the countenance of Mr. Zahoul blazed with wrath and humiliation.  “It’s very difficult to get a fluent interpreter in Arabic.”

“Well, just interpret what he says to me, will you?” kindly requested His Honor.