"Lo, I loosened a strap, honored one, and the accursed thing fell," was
the explanation.
"It fell, eh? So shall my whip fall, Sidi Hassan, if thou art not more
painstaking." He rushed towards a group of Somali syces.
"Pigs, and children of pigs," he cried, "for what does the Effendi pay
ye? Is there not occupation, ye black dogs? May your fathers' graves be
defiled by curs!"
Stump, whose rubicund visage was burnt brick-red by the desert, took a
keen interest in Abdur Kad'r's daily outpourings. He had no Arabic, but
he appreciated the speaker's fluency.
"He'd make a bully good bo's'n," was his favorite comment, and he would
add sorrowfully, "I wish I knew wot he was sayin'. It 'ud do me a
treat."
In an astonishingly short space of time the camp would be in form,
fires lit with parched shrubs gathered during the last stage of the
journey, a meal cooked, and every one settled down to rest until
sunset, when, if there was no evening march, the Arabs and negroes
would sing, and perhaps indulge in amazingly realistic sword-play,
while the dozen sailors brought from the yacht would watch the
combatants or engage in a sing-song on their own account.
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