well-known principle that a bird in the hand can be strafed more easily
than one with a medical certificate. The bush was the place for our
bird until such time as the P.M.O.'s signature should adorn the
necessary piece of paper; so we three rode up in a cab together to the
Sikh hospital, and had a rare time trying to get in.

You see, there was a Sikh on guard outside, who respected nothing under
heaven but his orders. He wouldn't have known Grim in any event, being
only recently from India; Grim's uniform would have passed him in, but
he and Jeremy were still arrayed as Arabs, and my civilian clothes
entitled me in the sentry's opinion to protection lest I commit the
heinous sin of impertinence. An Arab in his eyes was as an insect, and
a white man, who consorted with such creatures, not a person to be taken
seriously.

But our friend Narayan Singh was in the hospital, enjoying the wise
veteran's prerogative of resting on full pay after his strenuous
adventures along with us at Abu Kem. There was nothing whatever the
matter with him. He recognized Grim's voice and emerged through the
front door with a milk-white smile flashing in the midst of newly-curled
black hair--dignified, immense, and full of instant understanding.

Grim said a few words to Narayan Singh in Arabic, which so far as the
sentry was concerned wasn't a language, but Narayan Singh spoke in turn
in Punjabi, and the man just out from India began to droop like Jonah's
gourd under the old soldier's scorn.

In consequence we got a full salute with arms presented, and walked in
without having to trouble anybody in authority, Narayan Singh leading
with the air of an old-time butler showing royalty to their rooms. He