"That's Hoskai Bey's yellow handkerchief. He's a good man, but he blows
his nose too much, and blows it with a flourish. . . . Has Norman
gone back?"

"No, I've made him lie down in my cabin. He says he can't sleep, says he
can only work. He looks ten years older. Abdallah's an awful place, and
it's a heavy district. The Mamour there's a scoundrel. He has
influenced the whole district against Norman and our men. Norman--you
know what an Alexander-Hannibal baby it is, all the head of him good for
the best sort of work anywhere, all the fat heart of him dripping
sentiment--gave a youngster a comfit the other day. By some infernal
accident the child fell ill two days afterwards--it had been sucking its
father's old shoe--and Norman just saved its life by the skin of his
teeth. If the child had died, there'd have been a riot probably. As it
is, there's talk that we're scattering poisoned sweetmeats to spread the
disease. He's done a plucky thing, though. . . ." He paused. Dicky
looked up inquiringly, and Fielding continued. "There's a fellow called
Mustapha Kali, a hanger-on of the Mudir of the province. He spread a
report that this business was only a scare got up by us; that we poisoned
the people and buried them alive. What does Norman do? He promptly
arrests him, takes him to the Mudir, and says that the brute must be
punished or he'll carry the matter to the Khedive."

"Here's to you, Mr. Norman!" said Dicky, with a little laugh. "What
does the Mudir do?"

"Doesn't know what to do. He tells Norman to say to me that if he puts
the fellow in prison there'll be a riot, for they'll make a martyr of
him. If he fines him it won't improve matters. So he asks me to name
a punishment which'll suit our case. He promises to give it 'his most