patch of campfire that twinkled in the open space in front of the tent
door. For, up there in the hills, the nights had an edge of chill to
them; be the days ever so hot.

Stretching himself out lazily in his long chair, Kirby exhumed from a
shirt pocket his disreputable brier pipe, and filled and lighted it. The
big white Syrian stars glinted down on him from a black velvet sky.
Along the nearer peaks and hollows of the Moab Mountains, the knots of
prowling jackals kept up a running chorus of yapping--a discordant chant
punctuated now and then by the far-away howl of a hunting wolf; or, by
the choking "laugh" of a hyena in the valley below, who thus gave forth
the news of some especially delicious bit of carrion discovered among
the rocks.

And Kirby was reminded of Najib's quoted dictum that "laughter is for
women and for hyenas." The memory brought back to him his squat
henchman's weird jumbling of the strike system. And he smiled in
reminiscent mirth.

The Syrian had been his comrade in many a vicissitude And he knew that
Najib's fondness for him was as sincere as can be that of any Oriental
for a foreigner, an affection based not wholly on self-interest. Kirby
enjoyed his evening powwows with superintendent beside the campfire; and
the little man's amazing faculty for mangling the English tongue.

He rather missed Najib's presence to-night. But he was not to miss it
for long. Just as he was about to knock out his pipe and go to bed, the
native came pattering up the slope on excitedly rapid feet; and squatted
as usual on the ground beside the American's lounging chair. In Najib's
manner there was a scarce-repressed jubilant thrill. His beady eyes