There was a lamp burning inside, and two or three men smoking at small wooden tables.
We ordered coffee, thick black stuff like treacle, which Peter anathematized.

A negro brought it, and I told him in German I wanted to speak to Mr Kuprasso.

He paid no attention, so I shouted louder at him, and the noise brought a man out of the back parts.
He was a fat, oldish fellow with a long nose, very like the Greek traders you see on the Zanzibar coast.

I beckoned to him and he waddled forward, smiling oilily.

Then I asked him what he would take, and he replied, in very halting German, that he would have a sirop.
'You are Mr Kuprasso,' I said.