“The Jews wanted to tell me I had no right to take that chap to the Sikh hospital, and no more had I; so I plugged him up a bit, and put him in a cab, and let him take himself there, Mabel and me beside him.  Seeing I was paying for the cab, I didn’t see why Mabel should walk.  Of course, once we had him in there he was too sick to be moved; but the Army won’t pay for him, so I sent a bill to the Zionists, and they returned it with a rude remark on the margin.  Maybe I can get the money out of Feisul some day; otherwise I’m stuck.”

“I’ll settle that,” said Grim.  “What’s the tune he plays?”

“Utter mystery.  Swears a Jew stabbed him, but that Damascus outfit blame the Jews for everything.  He’s only just down from Damascus.  I think he’s one of Feisul’s officers, although he’s not in uniform—­ prob’ly on a secret mission.  Suppose you go and see him?  But say, watch out for the doc on duty—­he’s a meddler.  Tell him nothing!”

“Sure.  How about Jeremy?  What’s the verdict?”

“What do you want done with him?”

“I want him out of reach of trouble here pending his discharge.  No need to certify him mad, is there?”

“Mad?  All Australians are mad.  None of us need a certificate for that.  Have you arrested him?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you’re too late!  He’s suffering from bad food and exposure.  The air of Jerusalem’s bad for him, and he’s liable to get pugnacious if argued with.  That runs in the blood.  I order him off duty, and shall recommend him within twenty minutes to the P.M.O. for leave of absence at his own expense.  If you know of any general who dares override the P.M.O.  I’ll show you a brass hat in the wind.  Come on; d’you want to bet on it?”

“Will the P.M.O. fall?” asked Grim.

“Like a new chum off a brumby.  Signs anything I shove under his nose.  Comes round to our house to eat Mabel’s damper and syrup three nights a week.  You bet he’ll sign it:  Besides, he’s white; pulled out of the firing-line by an Australian at Gaza, and hasn’t forgotten it.  He’d sign anything but checks to help an Anzac.  I’ll be going.

“You trot up to the slaughter-shop, Grim, and interview that Arab—­Sidi bin Something-or-Other—­forget his name—­he lies in number nineteen cot on the left-hand side of the long ward, next to a Pathan who’s shy both legs.  You can’t mistake him.  I’ll write out a medical certificate for Jeremy and follow.  And say; wait a minute!  What price the lot of you eating Mabel’s chow tonight at our house?  We don’t keep a cook, so you won’t get poisoned.  That’s settled; I’ll tell Mabel you’re coming.  Tootleloo!”

But there was a chance that the brigadier might carry resentment to the point of sending up a provost-marshal’s guard to arrest Jeremy on the well-known principle that a bird in the hand can be strafed more easily than one with a medical certificate.  The bush was the place for our bird until such time as the P.M.O.’s signature should adorn the necessary piece of paper; so we three rode up in a cab together to the Sikh hospital, and had a rare time trying to get in.