rising upward, followed by two eyes like automobile headlamps; then appeared a pair of mustaches like a watchman's staff, and a mouth opened upon Arabic speech: "Might you be a son of the Arabs, my boy?" And the words came in a Lebanese accent bearing the stamp of "Sahtouf." Confidence flooded back over Sheikh Ajjaj's soul, and he stood fast in his place — nay, he drew himself up loftily and cried out, as though proclaiming "We, King of England and Emperor of India," and said, "I am Sheikh Ajjaj Jadallah." As for the owner of the bald pate — Hasib Nabhan — he was dumbfounded, and struck his wrinkled forehead with his palm, as though he had touched an unseen electric button, and a lamp shone forth, lighting the darkness of a distant past; for the years leaped backward, and there he was, a boy in the village of "Sahtouf," his father the watchman of the village; and there he was one day, playing in the "Square of the Sheikhs" — the Jadallah sheikhs — when Sheikh Abbas Jadallah pounces on him with the cry, "Don't you know that the sons of the common folk do not play in the squares of the sheikhs?" And Sheikh Abbas takes up a stone and hurls it at him, and it strikes the brow of Hasib Nabhan. And Hasib ran his hand once more over the wrinkles of his forehead, and there among them was a valley — the scar of the wound from Sheikh Abbas's stone, wherein the unseen electric button had lain hidden. And here was the son of Sheikh Abbas being thrown out of Hasib Nabhan's store; and here was Hasib Nabhan in a store like a Jew's dream — goods, and sales, and customers; and here were forty years gone by over the wounded boy. The world spun with Hasib, and feelings mingled within him — vanity at the success that had come to him, pity for a pauper, respect for a sheikhdom he had been reared to revere, chivalry toward a stricken sheikh, and a longing for the homeland whose memory the years had all but effaced. His head swam, and he did not come to himself until he heard the Sheikh clearing his throat, still standing erect in his place. Then Hasib sprang to his collar and put it on, ringed his neck with a necktie, took his jacket from the wall and thrust into its sleeves two arms as thick as a pair of bridge-beams, bent down

over his shoes and laced them tight, and advanced with all humility toward Sheikh Ajjaj and bowed in greeting: "How fares your honor, our master Sheikh Ajjaj?" What music those words were in the ears of the wandering

Sheikh! God bless this city, where they know men's titles and men's stations; and God curse Australia, where they do not know the ranks of men. And Sheikh

Ajjaj took his time in answering, saying: "You are of the Nabhan