Hearing of my loss, he gave me the worst scolding I have ever had, and then went out to blow up the hotel proprietor.
It was, for once, a real hotel with table d'hote, hall-porter, and a palm-lounge--everything, in fact, excepting drains.

The owner was a fat, brown individual, whom I had generally seen recumbent on a sofa in his office, while someone of his many sons did all the work.

But that he could show energy upon occasion I now learnt.

Hearing from Rashid that I, a guest in his hotel, had suffered robbery, he sprang on to his feet and danced with rage.
When I arrived upon the scene, which was the palm-lounge--an open courtyard shaded by an awning--he was flourishing a monstrous whip, with dreadful imprecations, literally foaming at the mouth.

I begged him to do nothing rash, but he seemed not to hear me.