I was absorbed in one of the barber’s not very proper stories when my ear caught the strains of what sounded like an aged and infirm piano or a spinet, and turning with the rest of the crowd, perceived a party of musicians advancing up the market. The leader of the band was hammering a rude dulcimer; one of his two assistants sawed away at a preposterous little fiddle, while the other kept time with a drum, and all three bellowed out their song as though they were fresh from the Borough market with a cargo of broccoli. As they came opposite the barber’s stall the musicians halted, and the drummer advanced, holding out a small calabash for contributions. The pitch was well chosen, for the crowd was in high good humour, and the _kurdi_ rattled into the calabash merrily, the barber contributing half his recently earned fee. When the drummer came to me I shook my head, for my means did not admit of my making presents, but the man was persistent, and stood before me with the calabash thrust under my nose. “Wilt thou not give the poor musicians a few _kurdi_?” asked the barber, confronting me with a saucy leer. “They who swagger about in rich apparel should be generous to the needy.” This delicate satire on my ragged appearance was greeted by a shout of laughter. “I am but a poor man, and must needs feed myself before I give to others,” said I gruffly, rather nettled at the barber’s impudence. “Feed thyself!” ejaculated the barber. “What need to feed thyself when thou art bursting with fatness already? Give alms to the poor, and let thy belly have a rest.” Fresh shouts of laughter greeted these exhortations, for my late experiences had left me as emaciated as a Cape Coast chicken, and I felt strongly disposed to pull my tormentor’s nose; but, apart from the unsuitability of the organ--which was as flat as a monkey’s--I saw that it would be the height of folly to lose my temper, for the crowd was growing every moment. “Let the Moor sing us a song if he will not pay,” suggested a broad-faced Bornu. “Good!” exclaimed the barber. “I have never heard a Moor sing. Sing us a good song, and I will shave thee for nothing--and not before thou needest it either.” The suggestion was received with acclamation by the crowd, including the musicians, so I determined to fall in with their humour. “Very well,” said I. “Give me thy instrument and I will sing.” I took the dulcimer from its owner, and slung it over my shoulder, and with one of the rubber-tipped hammers banged out the scale to try the range of the instrument and find the sequence of the notes. It had twenty notes, and was tuned sufficiently well to produce an intelligible air upon, and as I had been used to strum a little upon the piano in old days, this simple instrument presented no difficulties. I struck out boldly the opening phrase of “Tom Bowling” as a prelude, and then burst into song with a roar like the hail of a Channel pilot.