bloodless face grew ashy grey and livid blue alternately, and he would
have screamed at Grim if the cough that began to rack his whole body
would have let him. As it was, he gasped out unintelligible words and
sought to make Grim understand by signs. And Grim apparently did
understand.

"Very well," he laughed, "tell me who stabbed you and I won't mention
your name to Staff-Captain Abd el Kadir."

"And these men? Will they say nothing?"

"Not a word. Who stabbed you?"

"Yussuf Dakmar! May Allah cut him off from love and mercy!"

"Golly!" exploded Jeremy, forgetting not to talk English. "There's a
swine for you! Yussuf Dakmar's the son of a sea-cook who used to sell
sheep to the Army four times over--drive 'em into camp and get a
receipt--drive 'em out again next night--bring 'em back in the morning--
get a receipt again--drive 'em off--bring 'em back--us chaps too busy
shifting brother Turk to cotton on. He'll be the boy I kicked out of
camp once. Maybe remembers it too. I'll bet his backbone's twanging
yet! Lead me to him, Grim, old cock, I'd like another piece of him!"

But Grim was humming to himself, playing piano on the bed-sheet with his
fingers.

"Is that man not an Arab?" asked the fellow in bed, taking alarm all
over again.