"That
Gentleman," He Whispered In A Lisping Accent, "Is, Sir, The
Lieutenant-Governor Of Gibraltar."
On either side outside the door, squatting on the ground, or
leaning indolently against the walls, were some half dozen men of
very singular appearance.
Their principal garment was a kind of
blue gown, something resembling the blouse worn by the peasants of
the north of France, but not so long; it was compressed around
their waists by a leathern girdle, and depended about half way down
their thighs. Their legs were bare, so that I had an opportunity
of observing the calves, which appeared unnaturally large. Upon
the head they wore small skull-caps of black wool. I asked the
most athletic of these men, a dark-visaged fellow of forty, who
they were. He answered, "hamalos." This word I knew to be Arabic,
in which tongue it signifies a porter; and, indeed, the next
moment, I saw a similar fellow staggering across the square under
an immense burden, almost sufficient to have broken the back of a
camel. On again addressing my swarthy friend, and enquiring whence
he came, he replied, that he was born at Mogadore, in Barbary, but
had passed the greatest part of his life at Gibraltar. He added,
that he was the "capitaz," or head man of the "hamalos" near the
door. I now addressed him in the Arabic of the East, though with
scarcely the hope of being understood, more especially as he had
been so long from his own country.
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