Here, at all events, if you
do not mind a little native _esprit de corps_, you will be able to thaw
your frozen limbs; all the other rooms of Gafsa, public and private, are
like ice-cellars. There are many of these coffeehouses in the town, and
this is one of the least fashionable of them. Never a European darkens its
door; seldom even a native soldier; it is not good enough for them; they
go to finer resorts.
At its entrance there lie, conveniently arranged as seats, some old Roman
blocks, overshadowed by a mulberry, now gaunt and bare. It must be
delightful, in the spring-time, to sit under its shade and watch the
street-life: the operations at the neighbouring dye-shop where gaudy
cloths of blue and red are hanging out to dry, or, lower down, the
movement at the wood-market--a large tract of "boulevard" encumbered with
the impedimenta of nomadism. There is a ceaseless unloading of fuel here;
bargains are struck about sheep and goats, the hapless quadruped, that
refuses to accompany its new purchaser good-naturedly, being lifted up by
the hind legs and made to walk in undignified fashion on the remaining
two.
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