"Arab your aunt!" laughed Jeremy: "I eat Arabs! I'm the only original
genuine woolly bad man from way back! I'm the plumber who pulled the
plug out of Arabia! You know English? Good! You know what a dose of
salts is then? You've seen it work? Experienced it, maybe? Hah!
You'll understand me. I'm a grain of the Epsom Salt that went through
Beersheba, time the Turks had all the booze in sight and we were
thirsty. Muddy booze it was too--oozy booze--not fit for washing hogs!
Ever heard of Anzacs? Well, I'm one of 'em. Now you know what the
scorpion who stung you's up against! You lie there and think about it,
cocky; I'll show you his shirt tomorrow morning."

"Suppose we go now," suggested Grim. "I've got the drift of this thing.
Get the rest elsewhere."

"You can fan that Joskins for a lot more yet," Jeremy objected. "The
plug's pulled. He'll flow if you let him."

Grim nodded.

"Sure he would. Don't want too much from him. Don't want to have to
arrest him. Get me?"

"Come on then," answered Jeremy, "I've promised him a shirt!"

Beyond the screen Narayan Singh stood like a statue, deaf, dumb,
immovable. Even his eyes were fixed with a blank stare on the wall
opposite.

"How much did you hear?" Grim asked him.