“Imshi!” he ordered bluntly.

But Yussuf Dakmar was delighted.  The reception convinced him, if anything were needed to do that, that one of us really was guarding the secret letter; and he was one of those hogs, anyhow, who glory in snouting in where they are plainly not wanted.  He took the corner seat opposite Jeremy, tucked his legs up under him, produced a cigarette and smiled offensively.  I’ll concede this, though:  I think the smile was meant to be ingratiating.

He pulled out a package wrapped in newspaper and began to eat before the train had run a mile.  And, you know, more men get killed because of how they eat than by the stuff they devour.  If you don’t believe that, try living in camp for a week or two with a man who chews meat with his mouth open.  You’ll feel the promptings of a murderer.  I know a scientist who swears that the real secret of the Cain and Abel story is that Abel sucked his gums at mealtime.

“You ought to be buried up to the neck and fed with a shovel!” Jeremy informed him in blunt English after listening to the solo for a while.

“Aha!  That is the way they used to treat criminals in Persia,” he answered pleasantly, with his mouth full of goat’s milk cheese.  “Only they put plaster of Paris in the hole, and when it rained the wretched man was squeezed until the blood came out of his mouth and eyes, and he died in agony.  But how comes it that you speak to me in English?  If we are both Arabs, why not talk the mother tongue?”

“My rump is my rump and the land is its rulers,” Jeremy answered in Arabic, quoting the rudest proverb he could think of on the spur of the moment.

“Ah!  And who is its ruler?  Who is to be its ruler?”

Yussuf Dakmar made a surreptitious face at Grim, and his little cold eyes shone like a hungry pariah dog’s.  It began to be interesting to watch his opening gambit.

“I have heard tales,” he went on, “of a new ruler for this country.  What do you think of Feisul’s chance?”

As he said that he eyed me sideways swiftly and keenly.  Grim sat back in his own corner and folded up his legs, watching the game contentedly.  Jeremy, intercepting Yussuf Dakmar’s glance, put his own construction on it.  He is a long, lean man, but like the Fat Boy in Pickwick Papers he likes to make your flesh creep, and humor, to have full zest for him, has to be mischievous.

So he commenced by pulling out his weapons one by one.  The first was a razor, which he sharpened, tested with his thumb suggestively, and then placed in his sock, studying Yussuf Dakmar’s throat for a minute or so after that, as if expecting to have to use the razor on it presently.

As the effect of that wore off he pulled out a pistol.  It was one of the kind that won’t go off unless you pull the Hammer back, but Yussuf Dakmar didn’t know that, and if he had flesh and blood capable of creeping it’s a safe assertion that they crept.  Jeremy acted as if he didn’t understand the weapon, and for fifteen minutes did more stunts with it than a puppy can do with a ball of twine.  One of them that interested Yussuf Dakmar awfully was to point the pistol straight ahead, half-cocked, and try to get the hammer down by slapping it with the palm of his hand.