perchloride. That's my day's tot-up. Any particular trouble?" he
added, eyeing Fielding closely.

Fielding fretfully jerked his foot on the floor, and lighted his pipe,
the first that day.

"Heaps. I've put the barber in prison, and given the sarraf twenty
lashes for certifying that the death of the son of the Mamour was el
aadah--the ordinary. It was one of the worst cases I've ever seen. He
fell ill at ten and was dead at two, the permis d'inhumation was given at
four, and the usual thing occurred: the bodywashers got the bedding and
clothing, and the others the coverlet. God only knows who'll wear that
clothing, who'll sleep in that bed!"

"If the Lord would only send them sense, we'd supply sublimate solution--
douche and spray, and zinc for their little long boxes of bones," mused
Dicky, his eyes half shut, as he turned over in his hands some scarabs a
place-hunting official had brought him that day. "Well, that isn't all?"
he added, with a quick upward glance and a quizzical smile. His eyes,
however, as they fell on Fielding's, softened in a peculiar way, and a
troubled look flashed through them; for Fielding's face was drawn and
cold, though the eyes were feverish, and a bright spot burned on his high
cheek-bones.

"No, it isn't all, Dicky. The devil's in the whole business. Steady,
sullen opposition meets us at every hand. Norman's been here--rode over
from Abdallah--twenty-five miles. A report's going through the native
villages, started at Abdallah, that our sanitary agents are throwing
yellow handkerchiefs in the faces of those they're going to isolate."