acquaintance of some gentlemen with gold-rimmed spectacles, and
the things they said about the Arabs set me to sympathizing with
the sons of Ishmael again.

In the midst of that predicament I met Jimgrim--Major James
Schuyler Grim, to give him his full title, although hardly any
one ever called him by it. After that, bewilderment began to
cease as, under his amused, painstaking fingers, thread after
thread of the involved gnarl of plots and politics betrayed
its course.

However, first I must tell how I met him. There is an American
Colony in Jerusalem--a community concern that runs a one-price
store, and is even more savagely criticized than the British
Administration, as is only natural. The story of what they did
in the war is a three-year epic. You can't be "epic" and not
make enemies.

A Chicago Jew assured me they were swine and horse-thieves. But
I learned that the Yemen Jews prayed for them--first prayer--
every Sabbath of the year, calling down blessings on their heads
for charitable service rendered.

One hardly goes all the way to Palestine to meet Americans; but
a journalist can't afford to be wilfully ignorant. A British
official assured me they were "good blokes" and an Armenian told
me they could skin fleas for their hides and tallow; but the
Armenian was wearing a good suit, and eating good food, which he
admitted had been given to him by the American Colony. He was
bitter with them because they had refused to cash a draft on