CHAPTER XI

"They are all right!"


There was no competition for seats on the Damascus train that morning.
Several of the window-panes were smashed, there were bullet-marks and
splinters on the woodwork everywhere--no need to ask questions. But I
found time on the platform to chat with some British officers while
keeping an eye lifting for Yussuf Dakmar and his friends.

"Damascus, eh? You'll have a fine journey if you get through alive.
Nine passengers were shot dead in the last train down."

"No law up there, you know. Feisul's army's all concentrated for a
crack at the French (good luck to 'em! No, I'm not wishing the French
any particular luck this trip). Nobody to watch the Bedouins, so they
take pot shots at every train that passes, just for the fun of it."

"May be war, you know, at any minute. The French are sure to make a
drive for the railway line--you'll be hung up indefinitely--commandeered
for an ambulance train--shot for the sake of argument--anything at all,
in fact. They say those Algerian troops are getting out of hand--paid
in depreciated francs and up against the high cost of debauchery.
You're taking a chance."

"Wish I could go. Haven't seen a healthy scrap sinze Zeitun Ridge.
Hey! Hullo! What's this? Lovely woman! Well, I'll be!"

It was Mabel Ticknor, followed by the six men I was watching for, Yussuf