"Well, they ran foul of an awkward predicament, which is that there are
some darned decent fellows among the officers of their army of
occupation. There's more than a scattering of decent gentlemen who
don't like dirt. I won't say they tell Feisul secrets, or disobey
orders; but if you want to give a man a square deal there are ways of
doing it without sending him telegrams."

Mabel put the tea back on the kerosene stove to stew, with an extra
handful of black leaves in it. Grim continued:

"Another thing: The French are half afraid that if they take the field
against Feisul on some trumped-up pretext, he'll get assistance from the
British. They could send him things he needs more than money, and can't
get. Ninety-nine per cent of the British are pro-Feisul. Some of them
would risk their jobs to help him in a pinch. The French have got to
stall those men before they can attack Feisul safely."

"How d'you mean--stall 'em?" demanded Jeremy. "Not all the British are
fools--only their statesmen, and generals, and sixty percent of the
junior officers and rank and file. The rest don't have to be fed pap
from a bottle; they're good men. Takes more than talk to stall that
kind off a man they like."

"You've got the idea, Jeremy. You have to show them. Well, why not
stir up revolution here in Palestine in Feisul's name? Why not get the
malcontents to murder Jews wholesale, with propaganda blowing full blast
to make it look as if Feisul's hand is directing it all? It's as simple
as falling off a log. French agents who look like honest Arabs approach
the most hairbrained zealots who happen to be on the inside with Feisul,