A Shawia tribesman who spoke a little English, a tall young man with dark skin, and an ear torn by an earring at the lobe, met us at the landing and extended his hand. He took upon himself to help us with our luggage, and we let him show us the way to the French hotel lately opened. Of course this man was anxious to serve us as guide and interpreter, and we were glad to have him. Driss Wult el Kaid was his name, Driss, son of the Kaid. He had worked for Englishmen at Casablanca, and from his accent we could tell they had been ‘gentlemen.’ No ‘h’s’ did he shift from place to place, while his pronunciation of such words as ‘here’ and ‘there’ were always drawled out ‘hyar’ and ‘thar.’ ‘Now, now,’ he would say with a twisting inflection, for all the world like an Oxford man wishing to express the ordinary negative ‘no.’ It was humorous. English of this sort, to the mind of a mere American, associates itself with aristocracy, while the face of a mulatto goes only with the under-race of the States. It was difficult, in consequence, to reconcile the two. But Driss soon demonstrated that he was worthy to speak the language of the upper man. The manners and the dignity of a ruling race were his heritage; and proud he was, though his bearing towards the poorest beggar never appeared condescending. A gentleman was Driss. ‘Me fader,’ he told us in fantastic Moro-English, ‘me fader he was one-time gov’nor Ziada.’ ‘Is he dead?’ ‘Now, now; he in prison.’ ‘What for?’ we asked. ‘Me fader,’ Driss explained, looking sorrowful, ‘he paid ten thousan’ dollar Hassani for (to be) gov’nor; two year more late ’nother man pay ten thousan’ dollar more, and he ’come gov’nor; me fader got no more money, so go prison.’ This was the old story, the same wherever Mohammedans govern; one man buys the right to rule and rob a province; over his head another buys it, to be succeeded by a third, and so on. We told Driss that this could not happen if the French ruled the country; it could not happen, we said, in Algeria. ‘I know, I know,’ said Driss. ‘Me fader he write (wrote) in a book about Algeria, and he teach me to read. Tell me, Mr. Moore, is it true a man can give his money to ’nother man and get a piece of paper, then go back long time after and get his money back?’ I told Driss that there were such institutions as banks, which even the Sultan could not rob; and he believed, but seemed to wonder all the more what manner of men Christians were. ‘It is fiendish; no wonder they defeat us; they work together inhumanly,’ he seemed to say; ‘indeed you cannot know our God!’