Dr. O'Brien insisted on Tom's having a clear day's rest before his journey was resumed. On the second morning, therefore, the party of seven embarked on the launch, and were conveyed rapidly across the Nyanza to Port Florence. Tom thought of the many things that had happened since he last saw the lake, and laughed with something of his old spirit when the padre reminded him of the fight with the hippopotamus. On reaching the eastern shore they took up their quarters in Sir John's old bungalow, and there Mr. Barkworth pestered Mbutu constantly to tell him again and again of the momentous doings in Mwonga's village.
One day, happening to be at Port Florence, he went down to the quay among other curious spectators to watch the arrival of a German steamer from down the lake. As the passengers came off, Mr. Barkworth was puzzled by one face among them, which he seemed to recognize without being able to remember whose it was or where he had seen it. The passenger was a thick-set, bearded man, wearing gold spectacles, limping badly, and carrying a big leather valise in his left hand. As he stepped off the gangway he stumbled, and would have fallen but for the purser's sustaining arm. He poured out a stream of very warm German, and as he limped away the purser turned to a man standing near and made some remark about the testy passenger. Mr. Barkworth caught the name.
"Swob! Swob!" he muttered. "Thought I knew him. It's the German trader I saw last year. And a prisoner in the Arab fort! Hi, Mr. Swob!"
He toddled after the German, who turned as he heard his name thus travestied.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Swob," said Mr. Barkworth, coming up with him. "Extremely sorry to hear of your sad experiences. It must have been a terrible time, sir. And but for that fine young fellow--
"Ach ja!" interrupted Herr Schwab; "I know all zat. I vant to forget it, nozink else."
"Naturally, my dear sir. I do hope that you will not suffer permanently, and that--"
"Not per-ma-nent-ly! Look at me, look at me, I say. I hafe vun leg qvite caput, goot for nozink. I hafe marks on my body zat vill remain till my death-day. Not suffer! Vy, I suffer vizout end: I suffer in my person, I suffer in my pockett, I suffer in my pride. I suffer allofer. And vy? I did nozink. I go to sell zinks--nozink more--and zey keep me, vill not let me go. Naturally, I protest. I say I appeal to Berlin, and zen zey chain me opp--yes, to a post--me, a Gairman sobjeck--and so am I chained for veeks and veeks. Himmel, but I grow meagre--vat you call skinny. I lose almost all ze flesh from my bones. Zen come Mr. Burnaby. By night zere is vun colossal combat. In ze yard of ze chief's house, zink I, I must be secure. But not so. Ofer ze vall come tousand fire-balls. I call: 'Hafe care, mind me, I am Schwab.' But zere hears none. A fire-ball fall upon my toe, and I am in com-bus-tion. Zen, my goodness! from ze chief's house run hundert shrieking defils. Portuguese, De Castro, so vas his name, struck me vid his sword as he pass me by. Zerefore am I lame to-day. Never shall I forget zat most fear-ful night. Efen still I shiver before ze zought. I vas let free; Mr. Burnaby, I must say, vat you call did me vell; but I hafe some grudge against him. Sir, zere vas hundert tousand pound sterling ifory in ze vaults below zat house: hundert tousand, sure as a gun. Now I did expect Mr. Burnaby to gife me at least--at least, vun tousand pound vorth for damages. I lose qvite so much in commission, to say nozink about ze vear and tear of my intellecks. No more is my brain as it vas. But Mr. Burnaby shut me opp, sir, shut me opp. He say somezink about ze ifory belong on account of law to ze Congo State and on account of right to ze blacks. Zat is not business, it is vat you call rot. He vill not gife me vun single tusk, and ven I say I vill write to ze Kaiser he say: 'Hang ze Kaiser!' Vat is zat for a kind of business, sir!"
The German's dudgeon was too much for Mr. Barkworth's gravity, and he had recourse to the never-failing safety-valve for his feelings--his handkerchief. When he had blown off his amusement, he asked:
"And what have you been doing since you left the fort?"
"I vent to all ze places vere I had left bags. Now I return to my home. Of Africa I hafe now enough. I travel to Düsseldorf, and zere, if ze Kaiser vill not gife me a pension, and if nozink more remains, I establish myself as barber, for I am at least--Mr. Burnaby vill say it,--at least vell capable to cut his hair!"
His tone was indescribably bitter. He continued:
"But first of all I go to Kisumu to despatch vun cable to ze Kaiser. I tell him he shall take ze Congo State. Ze Belgians, vat are zey? No good. Ze Congo State shall be Gairman, sir."
"Well! well!" said Mr. Barkworth, humouring him; "let's hope it's not so bad as that. In the meantime, you'll come and see Mr. Burnaby to say good-bye?"
"I zink not, sir. I nefer forgif him; he owe me tousand pound. Business are business. Long ago I say: 'Step nefer in betveen ze vite man and ze black.' He step in,--and I step out, sir."
And with that he walked away.
Three days after this, the travellers left for Mombasa. Father Chevasse saw them off at the railway-station.
"But we shall see you again?" said Lilian warmly, as they shook hands. "You will come and see us in England some day, won't you?"
The padre smiled a strange, almost wistful smile.
"I may not," he said quietly. "We White Fathers, when we put our hands to the plough, never turn back. I shall never even see my beloved Normandy again. I shall live and die in Africa.--God bless you!" he said to Tom; "I shall not forget you, though I may never see you again."
All Mombasa was on tiptoe with excitement when it was flashed along the line that the wanderer was returning. Everybody knew that he had saved the expedition, but what had happened since then was a mystery, and a fruitful subject for speculation among the European colony. Dr. O'Brien grumbled a little when he saw the crowd awaiting the train at the terminus.
"They might have had the common sense, not to say common decency, to keep out of the way just now. Making a peep-show of us, indeed!"
But he managed to get the invalid into the hotel without mishap, and afterwards referred everybody who applied to him for information to Mr. Barkworth. "He's brimmin' with it," he said. Mr. Barkworth, indeed, was pounced on at once by an inquisitive stranger, who included among his numerous avocations that of occasional correspondent to theTimes, and who cabled a column of extremely good 'copy' as soon as he had sufficiently pumped the garrulous old gentleman. This fact, no doubt, explained the number of telegrams which came during the next few days addressed to Tom--telegrams of congratulation from strangers, requests from publishers for the offer of his forthcoming volume, an invitation from a New York agency to undertake a lecture tour in the States. And yet not one-tenth of his story had been told. Mbutu had not vocabulary enough to give a consecutive narrative; it was only when Tom himself, after being mercifully spared excitement for a fortnight, was at last pronounced well enough to talk, that his friends wormed out of him bit by bit the whole story of his adventures. He dwelt lightly upon his own achievements, and Mr. Barkworth, when he retailed the narrative afterwards to all and sundry, did not fail to eulogize the "astonishing modesty of this fine young fellow; a true Englishman, you know." All which was duly doled out to the British public by the indefatigable newspaper-man.
One evening, when they had been in Mombasa for about six weeks, Sir John Burnaby was sitting with Mr. Barkworth, Major Lister, and the doctor in the smoking-room of the hotel. They were the only occupants of the room. The doctor had just announced that Tom would be well enough to leave for home by the boat sailing in three days, and the pleasure of all the gentlemen had been expressed in Mr. Barkworth's exclamation: "That's capital!" For a time they sat in silence, puffing at their cigars, each thinking over the events of the past twelvemonth in his own way. Then Major Lister, who was not usually the first to speak, said suddenly:
"Tom going back to Glasgow, sir?"
"That's a question that's been puzzling me," returned Sir John. "On the one hand, he has gone a certain way in his profession and might do well in it; on the other--"
"On the other, Burnaby," interrupted Mr. Barkworth, "he's not going back if I know it. Why, the boy's a born soldier and administrator, h'm; I knew it!"
"To tell the truth," said Sir John, "I've been wondering whether, on the strength of his doings out here, we couldn't get him a crib in the Diplomatic Service, or, if he wants to stay in Africa, in the service of one of the companies or protectorates. He asked me the other day if the Congo Free State people would give him something to do."
"That's out of the question," said Mr. Barkworth decisively. "I've read a lot of things I don't like about these Belgians, and if there is anything fishy in their methods of administration, the youngster would only eat his heart out. No; he's an Englishman; let him stick to the old country and the old flag, h'm!"
"We'll leave it till we get home," suggested Sir John. "I've a little more influence than I had a year ago, and I dare say we shall be able to get the boy something to suit him. Depend upon it I'll do my best; I don't forget that but for him I might be a bleached skeleton to-day."
"And that boy Booty--what about him, now?" asked Mr. Barkworth. "He's a fine fellow, you know. Too bad to leave him among these heathens to bow down to wood and stone, h'm! What can we do for him?"
"Put him in the K.A.R.," suggested Major Lister.
"I don't think he'd get on with them," said Sir John. "These Bahima are uncommonly proud."
"Have the boy in and let him speak for himself," said the doctor. "We cannot dispose of a human creature as if he were a bag of bones."
"Very well; ring for him."
In a minute or two Mbutu came in, dressed in loose garments of spotless linen. He looked rather shyly at the group of gentlemen, and yet stood proudly, and with an air of dignity.
"Mbutu," said Sir John, "we are all going back to England on Thursday, and your master will be with us. We should like to do something for you. You have been a faithful servant. Your master tells me that you have been his right hand--tending him in sickness, and never tired of helping him in health. You more than once saved his life. What would you like us to do for you?"
Mbutu was silent for some moments. Then he said, stumblingly:
"Sah my fader and mudder. No want leabe sah. No leabe him nebber, not till long night come. Big water? No like big water. Sah him village ober big water? Mbutu go; all same for one."
"I'm sure my nephew will be sorry to part with you," said Sir John kindly, "but I am afraid you cannot go with him. You see, he will not want your help in his own land. There are no forests to go through; no black men to need interpreters. I am afraid our cold bleak winters would not suit you, my boy."
"Tell you what," put in Mr. Barkworth, "let him try. Booty, you can come with me, and you'll often see your young master, let's hope. I'll take you as odd man, you know; clean the boots, run errands, rub down the pony, all that sort of thing, you know. Good suit of clothes; buttons, if you like, for best; a kind mistress and a comfortable home."
Mbutu drew himself up.
"Me Muhima," he said, addressing Sir John. "Muhima no slave. Clean boots for sah? Oh yes! sah fader and mudder. No for nudder master. Oh no! not for red-faced pussin."
"There's no gratitude--" Mr. Barkworth was beginning from sheer force of habit; but the boy went on:
"Found brudder, sah; brudder chief. Mbutu not go ober big water; berrah well. Go to brudder; be him katikiro, sah. Fink of master always, eber and eber, sah."
"I think you are wise," said Sir John. "You can talk it over with your master to-morrow."
"And just remember," put in the doctor, "that I will be in Kisumu for two years or more, and if ever you want any help, ask for Dr. O'Brien."
Tom had a long talk with Mbutu next day, and loth though he was to part with him, could not but approve his plan of returning to his brother's village. He took care that he should not go empty-handed; indeed, in point of worldly wealth the new katikiro was probably a greater man than his brother the chief. But it was only after much persuasion that he could be induced to accept anything whatever. As the doctor had decided to return to Kisumu at once, now that Tom's convalescence was assured, Mbutu agreed to go back with him without waiting to see his master off. The boy burst into tears for the first time in Tom's experience when the moment of parting came.
"Good-bye!" said Tom, putting his hand on the boy's head as he knelt by the couch. "You have been loyal and true to me, and I know that you will be a true katikiro to your brother. I should like to hear about you whenever you can get to Kisumu to send me a message. And see, I'll give you my watch. You don't need it to tell the time; but it will remind you of this wonderful year we have spent together. Perhaps I shall see you again some day. Good-bye, good-bye!"
Two days later Tom was carried on board the homeward-bound steamer amid the sympathetic cheers of a great crowd of Europeans and natives. Little had been seen of him, but from the government officials to the meanest coolie everybody knew all about him, and was ready to laud him to the skies.
As the gangway was about to be removed, a round little figure was seen rushing wildly up the quay, holding a blue envelope in his right hand, and shouting to the seamen.
"Just vun leetle moment!" cried Monsieur Armand Desjardins, panting as he tumbled on board. He made his way to the long chair on which Tom was lying, and handed him the envelope. "Monsieur Burnaby, vun leetle gift, vun souvenir, for to make you understan' my vair high consideration and my immense entusiasm. Adieu, my dear Monsieur Burnaby; dat you may arrive sound and safe at de end of de road, and vun fine day return for to see us now so desolate, dat is de prayer of your vair devoted Armand Desjardins. Adieu, mademoiselle, j'ai bien l'honneur de vous saluer; messieurs ... mademoiselle...."
And with his hand on his heart the vivacious little Frenchman made his best bow, and backed down the gangway.
The bell sounded, the screw revolved, and in a few minutes the vessel was steaming out of the harbour. Tom's friends stood at the rail, gazing at the receding shore and the waving hats and handkerchiefs until they had well-nigh faded from sight. Then they placed their deck-chairs in a semicircle around Tom, and sighed a sigh of great contentment.
"Well, we're off at last," said Mr. Barkworth, lighting a cigar and looking round over his spectacles on the group, with even more than his usual benevolence. "England, home, and beauty, and all that sort of thing, you know. No place like home. Well, what did mossoo give you, Tom? What I never can make out is, why a Frenchman can't do things in the same way as rational people. Why make a ballroom bow on the deck of a steamer, eh? Tell me that, now. What are you smiling at, Tom? Some bit of buffoonery, I'll warrant, h'm!"
"Monsieur Desjardins has dropped into verse," replied Tom, laughing outright. "A rhymed valedictory."
"Read it," said Sir John.
"Your accent is better than mine," said Tom, passing the paper to Lilian, his eyes twinkling. In her perfect accent, and with due attention to the mute e's, she began to read:
"Ô mon héros si jeune! ô guerrier intrépide!L'Afrique à ton départ a le coeur triste et vide.Lea bords du vaste lac résonnent de sanglots,Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des flots."
"Ô mon héros si jeune! ô guerrier intrépide!L'Afrique à ton départ a le coeur triste et vide.Lea bords du vaste lac résonnent de sanglots,Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des flots."
"Ô mon héros si jeune! ô guerrier intrépide!L'Afrique à ton départ a le coeur triste et vide.Lea bords du vaste lac résonnent de sanglots,Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des flots."
"Ô mon héros si jeune! ô guerrier intrépide!
L'Afrique à ton départ a le coeur triste et vide.
Lea bords du vaste lac résonnent de sanglots,
Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des flots."
Only Sir John and his nephew noticed that at this point the reader flushed a little, and crumpled the paper slightly in her hand. There was a momentary pause, as though everybody expected more to come, but Lilian was silent, and her father exclaimed:
"H'm! Translate, Lilian; why couldn't the mossoo say what he had to say in English?"
Sir John took the verses from her, and after an amused glance at them put them in his pocket.
"They're decent enough Alexandrines, Barkworth," he said with a chuckle. "Lilian's thinking of Tom's blushes, I suspect."
"Well then, translate, somebody. What's the fellow say?"
"Translate 'em in rhyme, a line each, sort of game," suggested Major Lister.
"A good idea!" exclaimed Sir John. "Place aux dames; you begin, Lilian; and it must be heroic measure, of course, to match the theme."
"How will this do?" asked Lilian after a moment or two.
"'O youthful hero, warrior brave and bold!'"
"'O youthful hero, warrior brave and bold!'"
"'O youthful hero, warrior brave and bold!'"
"'O youthful hero, warrior brave and bold!'"
"Capital! and the right heroic strain. I go on:
'Deserted Afric's heart is sad and cold'.
'Deserted Afric's heart is sad and cold'.
'Deserted Afric's heart is sad and cold'.
'Deserted Afric's heart is sad and cold'.
Now, Lister, it's your turn."
Major Lister puffed solemnly at his pipe for at least a minute before he said slowly, pausing after every word:
"'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs'."
"'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs'."
"'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs'."
"'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs'."
"As literal as a Kelly's crib, 'pon my word!" cried Sir John, laughing; "but I can't say much for your sense of rhythm. Now Barkworth, you're in for the last line. Come along, no shirking:
'Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des fiots'."
'Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des fiots'."
'Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des fiots'."
'Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des fiots'."
"What's it mean in plain English? I never made poetry in my life; used to get swished horribly for my verses at school; never could see any good in 'em."
"Gammon! It means: 'And your name, O Thomas, mingles with the noise of the waves'."
"There now, didn't I tell you so! Gammon indeed! Utter tomfoolery! How can his name do any such thing! Pure bosh; I knew it!"
"Play the game and don't argue. You've only to cap Lister's brilliant line, 'The-shores-of-the-vast-lake-re-sound-with-sobs--' syllable by syllable. Come along."
"I can't rhyme with 'sobs'. The only rhyme I know is 'lobs'; used to bowl 'em at Winchester forty odd years ago; 'sobs', 'lobs'--can't bring it in anyhow.
'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs--'"
'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs--'"
'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs--'"
'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs--'"
He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.
"'The wapping waves exclaim, where's Thing-um-bobs?'"
"'The wapping waves exclaim, where's Thing-um-bobs?'"
"'The wapping waves exclaim, where's Thing-um-bobs?'"
"'The wapping waves exclaim, where's Thing-um-bobs?'"
put in Tom quietly, and Mr. Barkworth's protest that he didn't call that translating was drowned in laughter.
It was some weeks later. The scene was the breakfast-room at The Orchard, Winterslow. Lilian was already at the head of the table by the steaming urn, Tom was cutting a rose in the garden, and Sir John standing with his hands in his pockets at the open French window. He had come down overnight to spend a week with his old friend, whose guest Tom had been ever since his arrival in England.
"Kept you waiting, eh?" said Mr. Barkworth, coming in briskly, his rubicund face aglow. "Glorious morning. Letters not arrived yet? Ah! here they are. One for Tom; foreign post-mark. Hi!" he shouted. "Come along; letter for you. Bacon's getting cold."
Tom entered, cut the big square envelope, read the contents, and passed it to his uncle.
"That's the third," he said with a smile. He was quite the old Tom once more, bright-eyed, fresh-coloured, supple as ever; a little older in looks, to be sure, with an air of manliness and grit that rejoiced Sir John's heart.
"Another offer? Come, that's capital. Who is it this time, Burnaby?"
"The King of the Belgians, by George! His secretary offers Tom a commission in the Free State forces, with a very prettily-turned compliment."
"How proud you'll be, Mr. Burnaby!" said Lilian.
"Proud! Not he!" retorted her father. "He won't accept that, or I'm a Dutchman."
"It's a little embarrassing, though," said Tom. "People are very kind. A crib in Nigeria a week ago, then one in Rhodesia, and now one in the Congo Free State!"
"Don't be in a hurry, Tom," said his uncle. "I had a long talk with Underwood of the Foreign Office yesterday. There's some idea of--but I won't give it away. Only I'll say this: that I don't think it'll be either Rhodesia or Nigeria, much less the Congo."
"I'm in no hurry, Uncle; it's very comfortable here, and a few months' rest will do me all the good in the world."
"Really!" returned Sir John, with a significant glance at Lilian. "By the way, I suppose you haven't seen Desjardins' latest article in the ParisFigaro? I have it in my pocket. He's running you for all you're worth--and more--as a world-hero, Tom. Here it is."
He handed a newspaper cutting to Tom. As he replaced a pile of papers in his pocket, a folded sheet fell to the floor. He picked it up, casually opened it, scanned it, and smiled.
"Now I think of it, Barkworth," he said, "we never showed you on the boat the second stanza of the little Frenchman's effusion, did we?"
"Oh, you really mustn't!" cried Lilian, starting up and flushing.
"What! what!" said her father. "Another verse of that rubbish! Let me see it."
Sir John handed him the paper; he put on his spectacles, and Lilian, throwing a reproachful look at Sir John, fled to the garden, while Tom tilted back his chair and laughed a little awkwardly. Mr. Barkworth pursed up his mouth and frowned.
"Why, hang it!" he cried, "here's my daughter's name! What does the wretched little man mean by writing my daughter's name! What's the meaning of it, Burnaby? I can't read the stuff."
"I'll read it to you:
'Tu vas, comblê de gloire, illustrer ta patrie:Tu vas briser des coeurs, et provoquer l'envie.Quel ange te conduit par delà l'ocean?--La mer répond tout bas, murmurant "Lilian"'.
'Tu vas, comblê de gloire, illustrer ta patrie:Tu vas briser des coeurs, et provoquer l'envie.Quel ange te conduit par delà l'ocean?--La mer répond tout bas, murmurant "Lilian"'.
'Tu vas, comblê de gloire, illustrer ta patrie:Tu vas briser des coeurs, et provoquer l'envie.Quel ange te conduit par delà l'ocean?--La mer répond tout bas, murmurant "Lilian"'.
'Tu vas, comblê de gloire, illustrer ta patrie:
Tu vas briser des coeurs, et provoquer l'envie.
Quel ange te conduit par delà l'ocean?--
La mer répond tout bas, murmurant "Lilian"'.
Perhaps Tom will oblige by translating."
"Not I, sir; I think you'll do it best. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and----"
"Yes, go and find her, certainly, my boy."
"Well now, Burnaby, just translate, please. There appears to be some mystery here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it, h'm!"
"You must make allowances for a Frenchman's sentiment, you know, Barkworth. What he says is something to this effect: 'Covered with glory, you're going to shed lustre on your country, and there you'll break all the girls' hearts and make all the boys jealous. What angel is wafting you over the ocean?'--A little high-falutin, you see. It ends--'And the sea whispers the name----'"
"Confound his impudence!" broke in Mr. Barkworth. "What right----what are you laughing at, Burnaby? Why--God bless me, you don't mean there's anything in it? Eh? What? 'Gad, I'm delighted, delighted, immensely pleased, old man!--Look at them in the garden, Jack; aren't they a fine couple, now!"
"They're rather young yet, Barkworth, eh?"
"Young! Of course they're young. Makes me young again myself to see them there, God bless them! Call 'em in; I must shake hands with Tom, the young dog; I know him!"
"I'd let 'em alone if I were you, Barkworth. Come round to the stables, and I'll tell you what Underwood said to me."
It is early morning in Zanzibar. The Arab quarter is scarcely astir; there are few passengers in its narrow tortuous lanes, with their square houses, each standing aloof, dark, repellent, prison-like for all its whitewash. But in the market-place the slant rays of the sun light up a busy scene. In and out among the booths of the merchants and the unsheltered heaps in which the lesser traders expose their wares, moves a jostling crowd--negroes of Zanzibar; visitors from the coast tribes; Somalis from the north; Banyamwesi, even Baganda and Banyoro, from the far interior--chattering, chaffering, haggling in a hundred variants of the Swahili tongue. Now and again the half-naked crowd parts to make way for a grave stately Arab in spotless white, with voluminous turban, or for some Muscat donkey whose well-laden panniers usurp the narrow space.
Suddenly above the hum of the market rises a strident voice. The wayfarers turn, and see a gaunt, bent, hollow-eyed figure in mendicant rags; standing on a carpet at the entrance of an alley, he has begun to harangue with the fervour of madness all who choose to hear.
"Hearken, ye faithful, sons of the Prophet, hearken while I tell of the shame that has befallen Islam! Verily, the day of our calamity has come upon us! Woe unto us! woe unto us! The hand of our foes is heavy upon us; they lie in wait for us, even as a lion for harts in the desert. Wallahi! the land was ours, from the sun's rising unto its setting, from the marge of the sea unto the uttermost verge of the Forest. Where now are all they that went forth, and in the name of Allah got them riches and slaves? Where are the leaders of old--Hamed ben Juna the mighty, Sefu his son strong in battle, yea, and the great Rumaliza? All, all are gone! I alone am left, even I, the least of their servants. The Ferangi--defiled be their graves!--shall they afflict us for ever? Are we dogs, that here, even here in our birthplace, the land of our fathers, we slink from the foot of the infidel? Awake, awake, O ye slothful! Haste ye! haste ye! Smite the Ferangi and spare not! Grind them into the dust; yea, crush them, destroy them utterly. Do ye linger or doubt? Behold, I will lead you! Lo, my sword!--is it not red with infidel blood? Let us sweep like the whirlwind upon them; like the lightnings of Allah will we rend and consume them. They that pollute our land shall be stricken, and none shall be left, no, not one alive for the wailing. By the beard of the Prophet I swear it!"
"Essalam alekam!"says a Somali in respectful greeting to a venerable seller of sweetmeats. "Who is he, O Giver of Delight?"
"Knowest thou not, O Lion of the Desert? He is a mad nebi from the Great Forest afar."
"Mashallah! And his name, O Kneader of Joy?"
"Men call him Mustapha."
* * * * * * * *
HERBERT STRANG
Complete List of Stories
ADVENTURES OF DICK TREVANION, THEADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER, THEA GENTLEMAN AT ARMSA HERO OF LIÉGEAIR PATROL, THEAIR SCOUT, THEBARCLAY OF THE GUIDESBLUE RAIDER, THEBOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADEBRIGHT IDEASBROWN OF MOUKDENBURTON OF THE FLYING CORPSCARRY ONCRUISE OF THE GYRO-CAR, THEFIGHTING WITH FRENCHFLYING BOAT, THEFRANK FORESTERHUMPHREY BOLDJACK HARDYKING OF THE AIRKOBOLONG TRAIL, THELORD OF THE SEASMOTOR SCOUT, THENO MAN'S ISLANDOLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN, THEONE OF CLIVE'S HEROESPALM TREE ISLANDROB THE RANGERROUND THE WORLD IN SEVEN DAYSSAMBASETTLERS AND SCOUTSSULTAN JIMSWIFT AND SURETHROUGH THE ENEMY'S LINESTOM BURNABYTOM WILLOUGHBY'S SCOUTSWITH DRAKE ON THE SPANISH MAINWITH HAIG ON THE SOMME