“Couldn’t you explain?”

“I’ll explain with this pistol when he comes a little nearer.  Now sit tight, Anerley.  They’re off!”

They were indeed.  It was the brown man with the green turban who headed the rush.  Close at his heels was the negro with the silver ear-rings—­ a giant of a man, and the other two were only a little behind.  As they sprang over the rocks one after the other, it took Anerley back to the school sports when he held the tape for the hurdle-race.  It was magnificent, the wild spirit and abandon of it, the flutter of the chequered galabeeahs, the gleam of steel, the wave of black arms, the frenzied faces, the quick pitter-patter of the rushing feet.  The law-abiding Briton is so imbued with the idea of the sanctity of human life that it was hard for the young pressman to realise that these men had every intention of killing him, and that he was at perfect liberty to do as much for them.  He lay staring as if this were a show and he a spectator.

“Now, Anerley, now!  Take the Arab!” cried somebody.

He put up the gun and saw the brown fierce face at the other end of the barrel.  He tugged at the trigger, but the face grew larger and fiercer with every stride.  Again and again he tugged.  A revolver-shot rang out at his elbow, then another one, and he saw a red spot spring out on the Arab’s brown breast.  But he was still coming on.

“Shoot, you ass, shoot!” screamed Scott.

Again he strained unavailingly at the trigger.  There were two more pistol-shots, and the big negro had fallen and risen and fallen again.

“Cock it, you fool!” shouted a furious voice; and at the same instant, with a rush and flutter, the Arab bounded over the prostrate camel and came down with his bare feet upon Anerley’s chest.  In a dream he seemed to be struggling frantically with someone upon the ground, then he was conscious of a tremendous explosion in his very face, and so ended for him the first action of the war.

“Good-bye, old chap.  You’ll be all right.  Give yourself time.”  It was Mortimer’s voice, and he became dimly conscious of a long, spectacled face, and of a heavy hand upon his shoulder.

“Sorry to leave you.  We’ll be lucky now if we are in time for the morning editions.”  Scott was tightening his girth as he spoke.

“We’ll put in our wire that you have been hurt, so your people will know why they don’t hear from you.  If Reuter or the evening pennies come up, don’t give the thing away.  Abbas will look after you, and we’ll be back to-morrow afternoon.  Bye-bye!”