I tell you I don't want it! No, nor that, nor anything! I don't want a scarabæus; no, nor the foot of a mummy, nor a coin of the Ptolemies, nor a piece of sun-dried Nile mud inscribed with the cartouche of Rameses the Great. No! No, I tell you! No, confound you! No! No! No!!! . . . . Look here, if you don't go away I'll———" and so on, da capo.
All these and many other ejaculations long familiar to him reach the ears of the aged man, as also do the cheerful cries of his fellow-countrymen. "Scarabee! Forpiaster! Very good Ramses! Mummy anteeker, Mister! Say 'ow much! You no want Ramses! Orright!" He sees the sufferers gradually shake off the terrible "bakshish fly" (musca piastrisuga vulgaris) and flee for sanctuary into the vast hall of the vastest temple in the world. Whereupon, having observed that hardly one of the tormentors has succeeded in drawing a single drop of blood, he composes himself to sleep
