So he commenced by pulling out his weapons one by one. The first was a
razor, which he sharpened, tested with his thumb suggestively, and then
placed in his sock, studying Yussuf Dakmar's throat for a minute or so
after that, as if expecting to have to use the razor on it presently.

As the effect of that wore off he pulled out a pistol. It was one of
the kind that won't go off unless you pull the Hammer back, but Yussuf
Dakmar didn't know that, and if he had flesh and blood capable of
creeping it's a safe assertion that they crept. Jeremy acted as if he
didn't understand the weapon, and for fifteen minutes did more stunts
with it than a puppy can do with a ball of twine. One of them that
interested Yussuf Dakmar awfully was to point the pistol straight ahead,
half-cocked, and try to get the hammer down by slapping it with the palm
of his hand.

Most of our baggage was on the floor, but one fairly heavy valise was in
the rack over Yussuf Dakmar's head. Jeremy got up to examine it when
the pistol had ceased to amuse him, and taking advantage of a jerk as
the train slowed down, contrived to drop it into the Syrian's lap; who
rather naturally swore; whereat Jeremy took offence, and accused him of
being a descendant of Hanna, son of Manna, who lived for a thousand and
one years and never enjoyed himself.

It was our turn to eat sandwiches after that, while Yussuf Dakmar
recovered from his disgruntlement. But just before the meal was
finished Jeremy revived the game by asking suddenly in an awestruck
whisper where "it" was. He slapped himself all over in a hurry, feeling
for hidden pockets, and then came over and pretended to search me.
There wasn't anything to do but fall in with his mood, so I resisted,