LITMIR.BIZ

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said Fen, slowly.

      ​"By the way," said the Djinn, "you haven't told me your name yet."

      "It's Fenton Norvell, but they call me Fen."

      "Then I shall call you Fen, likewise," said Siddereticus, with his grave smile.

      "Please, Djinn," said the little boy, "have you ever been in those places where they are to-day—tombs of old, old kings, and cities where nobody lives?"

      "Very often," replied Siddereticus, lighting a cigarette. He blew a thin cloud of smoke, and then went on, as though he were picking up the thread of a story.

      "That temple—when you come near it, the great columns tower up and up against the blue sky; they are taller than the tallest palms on the bank there. They are covered all over with hieroglyphics—carved figures of birds and beasts and men—round and round the column as far up ​as you can see. Just the sky, and the desert, and the columns that are almost as old as the desert itself. And the wind blows and the sand drifts and covers up the great stone lions at the portal, and they lie buried and hidden for centuries. The storks fly across to fish in the Nile, just the way they did when the temple was being built, three thousand years ago; and within, the mighty statue of the god Osiris holds up its hand silently and forever."

      Siddereticus paused to relight his cigarette.

      "Oh!" cried Fen. "Oh! They never told me things like that!"

      "And the tombs," Siddereticus went on. "They are dug into the very heart of the rock. You go down and down, and by the flickering light of your candle you see the paintings on the walls—clear and bright after thousands of years. Pictures of battles and feasts, kings and gods and ​men. Your candle throws long, queer shadows across the wall, and you can see only a very little way ahead of you, till another stone stairway plunges you into the depths again. Then at last you come to a place where there is no stair; and looking down into a silent, black well, you know that there below in the gloom stands the sarcophagus of the king."

      Siddereticus, whose voice had sunk to a mysterious undertone, paused and then said abruptly:

      "But nobody can really tell you about it. You have to see it."

      "Oh," sighed Fen, "I wish I could!"

      "So do I," said Siddereticus; "but it means riding a very bumpy donkey for an hour in the heat."

      "An' I couldn't possibly do that! You aren't the kind of Djinn that has magic carpets, are you?" inquired Fen, rather diffidently.

      ​"How I wish I were! Unfortunately, the Blue Djinns have nothing to do with magic carpets and such. They are not so powerful as some of the genii."

      "I suppose you've seen lots of Arabs—I mean scarabs," said Fen, presently, bringing his mind back from wistful imaginings. "Could you tell me about them?"

      "Scarabs?" said the Djinn. "Indeed I have seen scarabs—and Arabs, too, for that matter. I believe," he added, looking vaguely around the deck, "that I could get a scarab or two for you now."

      Taking his hands from his pockets, where they had been for some time, he rose to his feet, and passing his open hand over his closed one, he muttered "Moya sukhua!" which was the first thing that came into his head and happened to mean "hot water" in Arabic. Then he opened his hand and extended it to Fen, with four scarabs—beautiful bits of blue and green, ​with delicate carving—lying on the palm. Fen's eyes opened wide in wonder, the color came and went in his cheeks, and it was not until the young man dropped the handful into his lap, saying, "There you are!" that he could exclaim:

      "How did you do it?"

      "Djinns can do lots of things," smiled Siddereticus.

      Fen looked at the scarabs for a long time, touching them gently, while a little smile flickered now and again across his face.

      "What is the carving on the bottoms of them for?" he asked.

      Well, you see," explained Siddereticus, "the Egyptians thought that scarabæi—which are just plain beetles!—were sacred, so they made these little images of them out of clay, and wore them always, like talismans. When they died, ever so many scarabs were buried with them.

      ​The kings put their cartouches on the bottom—a sort of seal, you see. Each Pharaoh had his own cartouche—a lot of hieroglyphics carved on his scarabs, and statues, and his tomb, and whatever else belonged to him, so that every one knew at once whose it was."

      At last Fen handed the scarabs back to Siddereticus with a little sigh.

      "Oh, those are yours!" said the Djinn; "I can get more when I want them." And even as he spoke, he held a tiny blue one between his thumb and finger.

      "Oh!" cried Fen, laying his head back against the pillows, bewildered, "you are wonderful! And are these really and truly mine?" he added, in a rather awed voice.

      "I'm afraid I can't get you an Arab," said Siddereticus, looking vaguely about him again; "but I can fetch quite a splendid creature—a slave of mine, in fact."

      ​The young man glanced hastily over the rail, and then, turning his back to it, clapped his hands three times and said something in a strange language. Fen's eyes shone—in "Twilight Land" people always clapped their hands to summon slaves. But now over the side appeared a most gorgeous personage. His fez was of the richest scarlet, his jacket was curiously braided with gold, about his waist was an ample red sash, and a long, curved sword swung at his side. His white teeth gleamed in sharp contrast to his dark-skinned face and short black mustache. Fen, entirely speechless, gazed at this picturesque creature, to whom Siddereticus was speaking in low tones and with frequent gestures. The man, glancing quickly at Fen as he replied, drew his scimitar. Up it wheeled in a shining arc against the cobalt sky. And then and ​there the obliging slave went through an exhibition of sword-play, stamping and slashing and lunging with enthusiasm, while Fen, who by this time would not have been surprised had the deck opened and swallowed both Siddereticus and the swordsman, watched entranced, with shining eyes. Finally, having put all the fancy touches he could think of into his performance, the man made a low bow both to Fen and to his master, at a word from whom he vanished over the side.

      "And I must disappear, too," said Siddereticus.

      Fen caught his hand.

      "No!" he cried; "you mustn't go away, Siddereticus! You must stay—always!"

      "I shall come back again, never fear, Effendi," said the Djinn. Taking a notebook from his pocket, he scribbled a few lines, and, folding the paper, stuck it in ​the crack of a deck-house window. Then, bending suddenly, he kissed Fen's forehead, and was gone before the child could speak.

      ​

      CHAPTER II THE SLUMBER-SONG OF THE NILE

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      WHEN the people who had been ashore boarded the yacht again, they were quickly summoned aft by an excited voice. Fen pulled himself up in his chair and leaned on his elbow.

      "Oh, such a wonderful thing has happened to me!" he cried. "A Djinn—a Blue one—came here, an' his name is Siddereticus, an' he made scarabs come out of the air, an' a slave, with a fuz on his head, an' a sword, that fought with an in-vis-ible demon, an' he told me about the temples, an'—"

      His mother reached out her hand, quietly and rapidly passing it over Fen's ​forehead and cheek and the back of his neck; then taking his hand, she held it in hers. Turning to her husband, she said quickly in a low voice:

      "He isn't at all feverish!" Then she said, "Now, dear, don't talk quite so fast. Tell Mother all about it."

      Fen lay back among the pillows and looked rather helplessly at Sally and Larry, who were gazing at him with varying degrees of astonishment. They themselves had

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