Time and again, lone-handed, he has done better than an army corps, by playing chief against chief in a land where the only law is individual interpretation of the Koran.

But it wasn’t until our rescue of Jeremy Ross from near Abu Kem, that I ever heard Grim come out openly and admit that he was working to establish Feisul, third son of the King of Mecca, as king of just as many Arabs as might care to have him over them.  That was the cat he had been keeping in a bag for seven years.

Right down to the minute when Grim, Jeremy and I sat down with Ben Saoud the Avenger on a stricken field at Abu Kem, and Grim and Jeremy played their hands so cleverly that the Avenger was made, unwitting guardian of Jeremy’s secret gold-mine, and Feisul’s open and sworn supporter in the bargain, the heart of Grim’s purpose continued to be a mystery even to me; and I have been as intimate with him as any man.

He doles out what he has in mind as grudgingly as any Scot spends the shillings in his purse.  But the Scots are generous when they have to be, and so is Grim.  There being nothing else for it on that occasion, he spilled the beans, the whole beans, and nothing but the beans.  Having admitted us two to his secret, he dilated on it all the way back to Jerusalem, telling us all he knew of Feisul (which would fill a book), and growing almost lyrical at times as he related incidents in proof of his contention that Feisul, lineal descendant of the Prophet Mohammed, is the “whitest” Arab and most gallant leader of his race since Saladin.

Knowing Grim and how carefully suppressed his enthusiasm usually is, I couldn’t help being fired by all he said on that occasion.

And as for Jeremy, well—­it was like meat and drink to him.  You meet men more or less like Jeremy Ross in any of earth’s wild places, although you rarely meet his equal for audacity, irreverence and riotous good-fellowship.  He isn’t the only Australian by a long shot who upholds Australia by fist and boast and astounding gallantry, yet stays away from home.  You couldn’t fix Jeremy with concrete; he’d find some means of bursting any mould.

He had been too long lost in the heart of Arabia for anything except the thought of Sydney Bluffs and the homesteads that lie beyond to tempt him for the first few days.

“You fellers come with me,” he insisted.  “You chuck the Army, Grim, and I’ll show you a country where the cows have to bend their backs to let the sun go down.  Ha-ha!  Show you women too—­red-lipped girls in sunbonnets, that’ll look good after the splay-footed crows you see out here.  Tell you what:  We’ll pick up the Orient boat at Port Said—­no P. and O. for me; I’m a passenger aboard ship, not a horrible example!—­ and make a wake for the Bull’s Kid.  Murder!  Won’t the scoff taste good!

“We’ll hit the Bull’s Kid hard for about a week—­mix it with the fellers in from way back—­you know—­dry-blowers, pearlers, spending it easy—­ handing their money to Bessie behind the bar and restless because she makes it last too long; watch them a while and get in touch with all that’s happening; then flit out of Sydney like bats out of—­and hump blue—­eh?”