ponytail lyricist

by James Vang

His storeroom was kept open till late at night paying off in goods.
The priest could not make up his mind to abandon Anthony.
But strange things lived in that perpetual shade; their forms were nightmares, horrible. On this the chief knelt facing Mecca and returned thanks for the safe arrival of his caravan.
When he spoke with them he felt at ease again.
The separate shelter prevented him from living under the same roof with slaves and Christian dogs.
Fingers, knuckles, and toes supplied arithmetic.
Anthony stopped his own hand just in time.
In particular they were on the watch for slaves who had been doctored up for the occasion. The liberality of the trader is judged by this earnest of his desire to trade.
The little settlement attracted small notice and few visitors of any kind.
It was a bass note in which there was not even the suggestion of a sentimental tremolo. Even the Foulahs hesitated to waken the tiger in them by handling the baby. They went up again without looking behind them.
He told himself he only cared for the mode of living trade made possible.
Yet even these savage traders have some dim feeling that something is wrong somewhere. Anthony thought once that he could still hear the bell. Just then the little bell rang out softly and clearly.
Hovering about it, and along its flanks, were white-robed Arabs with rhinoceros-hide whips. His hands and feet felt dry, and his mouth parched. There were nearly a score of young darkies about him.
The place seemed to have dropped out of the world into a hollow.

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