H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred
years nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but they
were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you could
have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the Tailor,
the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and Forty
Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and all the
old Arabian gang easily.
But let us revenue to our lamb chops.
Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks and
bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph you
must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.
Rashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a
Turkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and personal
affairs, the police court'll get you.
Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money
and everything. That's what makes a caliph--you must get to despise
everything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want something
that you can't pay for.
"I'll take a little trot around town all by myself," thought old Tom,
"and try if I can stir up anything new.
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