Impostures. al-Ḥarīrī

the Bairam came, with its row and fanfare, its liturgies and articles, I upheld ancient custom and sallied out rum-togged in a new set of duds. Around the autum, the stir had gotten in kelter, and the coves in the push were starting to whiffle. Just then an old sharp in tats rose to his feet. Over his peepers was a tatty-tog, and under his rammer a knapsack. An old hen with a bracket-mug was leading him around. Staggering, he moused a salutation. Then he dipped into his bag and took out some pieces of scrip scratched in different colors. Handing them to the harridan, he told her to gun the flats in the push. If any looked bene and plump, she was to give them each a stiff.

      

      7.2As Old Shoe would have it, one of the gapeseeds came to me. On it was this glibe:

      Old Poger has made me swim for my swag,

      But lenten in my panny is my pap-lap;

      For his sweet sake tip us a rag.

      I’ve been rooked by curlers who sweat the bag,

      I’ve been bilked by burners for a goose-cap;

      Old Poger has made me swim for my swag.

      If only I could square it and turn stag!

      But kinchin needs scran in his flatter-trap;

      For his sweet sake tip us a rag.

      I’ve been kimbawed and tied with a gag,

      And lost my regulars after the scrapp;

      Old Poger has made me swim for my swag.

      He’s made me heave peters off a drag,

      And when my squeaker whindles, I tap.

      For his sweet sake slip us a rag.

      I’m rum-bit by the best—not to brag:

      By coves that lace, and coves that snap;

      Old Poger has made me swim for my swag,

      For our sweet sake tip us a rag.

      7.3When I had measured the way those lines had been laid out I got smoky, and I wanted to get the party who dealt them down close. A rover came into my nouse-box: I’d use the trot to rope him in, dawbing her as if she were a dookin mort. So I gunned her as she worked the rows one by one, asking the coves in the push to post some sugar. But it was a no go: the gripe-fists were canting her nix. At last she gave it up. “Of God are we,” she chanted, “and to Him we hare it!” Then she began to take the stiffs back. For some reason Old Poger made her forget about mine, and she never transpeared me. So she hared back maudling to the old cove, mouthing that she’d been dealt a skinning hand. “Dunnakin!” he said. “In God we trust, and in Him alone!” Then he chanted:

      All men are equal in my eyes,

      For all are hard of heart;

      Not one will help his fellow rise

      When Malice casts her dart!

      

      7.4Then he told her: “Collect the stiffs and count ‘em again, and tell yourself, ‘It will come off rye buck, for bully times are here!’”

      “I counted ‘em when I collected ‘em,” she said, “and one of them’s been pilched.”

      “Nickey take you, harridan!” he cried. “Shall we lose the stick after the hook, and the glimstick along with the tace? Why, this is the last strammel!”

      So the old hen legged it back the way she had come, buzzing for her piece of scrip. When she drew close to me, I held up her fakement, along with a spanish and a jack. “Here’s a teston; if you want it, you must chant. But if you would rather keep your wid shut, take the spud and mizzle!”

      “Kirjalis!” she said, emphatically declaring her partiality for the hard cole, which was big and shiny as Oliver. “I’ll cackle.”

      So I asked her to whiddle me the whole scrap about the old sharp, and tell me who had scratched the verses.

      “Why, that’s the cove from Saroodj, and he’s the word-pecker.”

      Quick as a ramper, she grabbled the spanish and legged it.

      

      7.5That is when I tumbled to him: why, the cove must be Aboo Zaid! I grew glum at the thought that his gagers had been gouged out. I hoped to sneak up and chaff with him until I got him down fine. But there was no way of reaching him but to step over all the coves in the push. That proceeding, say the brothers of the coif, merits a jobation; and I was unwilling to be chiv-ied for jostling through the stir. So I stuck to my spot, keeping my peepers planted on the old cove until the autum bawler’s patter was ended and the breakup began. Then I bolted after him. Though his glims were gummed together, I’m as fly with the seavey and the scavoir as Ebn Abbâs or Ebn Iyâs, and when I measured his mug I saw I had copped him to rights. I told him my chant, gave him one of my mill-togs, and offered him some tommey. He was glad I’d chalked him, he said, and he was grateful for the lift, and yes, he would come and yam some pannam. So we legged it, with him piping me and hanging on to my flapper, and the cutty-eyed hen making tray.

      

      7.6After we had moved our beaters into my crib, I flicked him some pannam and kaffar.

      “Hâret!” said he, “is anyone with us but pilgarlic?”

      “No one,” I said, “but the lady.”

      “And she is a staunch moll, so there need be no fear.”

      Then he opened his peepers—his gagers—his glims—his lamps—his ogles—his day-lights—and that was a Jew’s-eye! But pleased as I was, I was bustled, and agog to be flash. “Why play a groper,” I asked, “when you so often walk your boots to daisyville, pad the hoof on dusty donbites, and ride your stampers far and wide?”

      At first he pretended his potato-trap was full of scroof and he was too busy yamming to gab; but when he had wound up the tooth-music, he chanted at me cutty-eyed:

      One queer lamp has Mother Goodluck,

      And dark her other glim;

      If you need her help to come off rye buck

      Best keep your ogles dim.

      

      7.7Then he said: “Now off to the back-room, there’s a bene cove, and bring me a bit of washing-powder to delight the eye, scour the palm, soften the skin, perfume the breath, tighten the gums, and brace up the old bread-basket! Scent it well, grind it fresh, pound it fine, and serve it in a clean dish, so it smells like camphor and feels like gummy-stuff for the glims. Pair it with a toothpick split off bang-up timber: a jock to stubble in your gob and a prime twig that edges you to yam, as lathy as a heaver, as limber as a switch, and as glib as a spado or a spit!”

      I got up agogare to bring him the cog-picker and the slippery, in order not to lurch him with a reeky daddle. But he was sending me to the back room to put me on a string and I never tumbled to it. I was away only for an instant; but when I hared it the panny was M T and Aboo Zaid and his drab long gone. In a pelt over being topped, I hopped the twig to tout them, but they might as well have been boated, or been hoisted into nubibus.

      Glossary

      7.1

      whiddle the whole scrap tell all one knows

      leg it run away, clear out

      hop the twig be off, go off

      jeffey lightning

      Bairam an older English name for either of the two great Muslim festivals

      rum-togged well-dressed

      duds clothes

      autum church, here used to mean “mosque”