Now, Logan Kirby knew the tangled Syrian character and its myriad queer slants, as well as it can be given to a white man to know it.  Kirby’s father had been a missionary, at Nablous.  He himself had been born there, and had spent his boyhood at the mission.  That was why—­after he had completed his engineering course at Columbia’s school of mines and had served an apprenticeship in Colorado and Arizona—­the Cabell Smelting Company of New York had sent him out to the Land of Moab, as manager of its new-acquired little antimony mine.

The mine—­a mere prospect shaft—­was worked by about thirty fellaheen—­native labourers—­supervised by a native guard of twelve Turkish soldiers.  Small as was the plant, it was a rich property and it was piling up dividends for the Cabells.  Antimony, in the East, is used in a score of ways—­from its employment in the form of kohl, for the darkening of women’s eyes, to the chemical by-products, always in demand by Syrian apothecaries.

This was the only antimony mine between Aden and Germany.  Its shipments were in constant demand.  Its revenues were a big item on the credit side of the Cabell ledger.

Kirby’s personal factotum, as well as superintendent of the mine, was this squat little Syrian, Najib, who had once spent two blissfully useless years with an All Nations Show, at Coney Island; and who there had picked up a language which he proudly believed to be English; and which he spoke exclusively when talking with the manager.

Kirby’s rare knowledge of the East had enabled the mine to escape ruin a score of times where a manager less conversant with Oriental ways must have blundered into some fatal error in the handling of his men or in dealing with the local authorities.

Remember, please, that in the East it is the seemingly insignificant things which bring disaster to the feringhee, or foreigner.  For example, many an American or European has met unavenged death because he did not realize that he was heaping vile affront upon his Bedouin host by eating with his left hand.  Many a foreign manager of labour has lost instant and complete control over his fellaheen by deigning to wash his own shirt in the near-by river or for brushing the dirt from his own clothes.  Thereby he has proved himself a labourer, instead of a master of men.  Many a foreigner has been shot or stabbed for speaking to a native whom he thought afflicted with a fit and who was really engaged in prayer.  Many more have lost life or authority by laughing at the wrong time or by glancing—­with entire absence of interest, perhaps—­at some passing woman.

Yes, Kirby had been invaluable to his employers by virtue of his inborn knowledge of Syrian ways.  Yet, now, he was not enough of an Oriental to understand why his lecture on the strike system should thrill his listener.

He did not pause to realize that the idea of strikes was one which carries a true appeal to the Eastern imagination.  It has all the elements of revenge, of coercion, and of trapping, of wily give-and-take, and of simple and logical gambling uncertainty, which characterize the most popular of the Arabian Nights yarns and which have made those tales remain as Syrian classics for more than ten centuries.