“That is like you Americans--always thinking of dollars.” “And why not? Can you get along without dollars?” “Perhaps not; but why be always thinking about them? I hate the very name of money,” exclaimed Ibrahim, fretfully. “Do you? Well, I don’t,” answered Max, and continued talking, for he realized that there was no better way to rouse Ibrahim’s dormant faculties than by a good discussion. “I don’t,” he said--“neither do you. You will go on making shawls in Persia, no matter how many dollars you get. You want to travel--you must have the money or you cannot do it. Say, old chap! did you never imagine that every dollar is coined through some fellow’s think tank being agitated?” “Think tank! What do you mean?” “Brain, if you like. Think tank, I call it--thought factory, if you like it better. But, say! you were dead, and you have come to life again. I have brought you from the grave.” “You are mad.” “Madcap, please; don’t abbreviate my sobriquet.” “You are insane.” “Am I?” “Yes. But tell me, Max, where are we?” “You are in a boat, I am on the floor; we are in a house belonging to the Gondos----” “Who?” “The Gondos.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, why?” “Have you spoken to them?” “Not much.” “Can you understand what they say?” “Only a little.” “If they are Gondos, I am safe.” “Are you? And why so, Mister Ibrahim Pasha?” asked Max, with a broad brogue. “The Gondos were originally Persians----” “Your relatives?” “And were fire worshipers.” “Is that so?” “And I have learned their language.” “Have you, really?” “I thought they were extinct.” “Not by any means; they are as thick as blackberries on a bramble bush, and as lively as June bugs.” By talking in this fashion, Max succeeded in making Ibrahim vexed, and that was the very best thing for his mind. When his temper had cooled a little, Ibrahim became calm, and then Max told him how they had been rescued. “They think we are from the storm gods, and so we must be, or they must think so, and we shall be safe. Once let them get any other idea into their ugly heads, and we shall be made into soup.” “The Gondos never eat meat,” said Ibrahim, taking Max to mean what he said in a literal sense. “Anyway, we must keep up the delusion.” “Can we?” “Yes.” “How?” “You must do just what I tell you. I have it all arranged.” “If we fail?” “We shall die; but if we succeed, we shall soon see Sherif el Habib----” “And Girzilla,” added Ibrahim. “We shall. Now to begin. I am going to make it rain. You know the language, you said?” “I believe so.” “Then you must tell them what I am going to do.” “What can you do?” “Never mind. I know they want rain, and would do anything to get it. I want you to hurry, or my power will be lost.” Ibrahim was of too serious a nature to care for practical joking, and that was just what he imagined the madcap was after. But Max was in earnest, and he led Ibrahim from the strange-looking house to the one occupied by the chief.