The work was progressing finely.  Kirby thrilled at the thought.  And he was just a little ashamed of his own recent impatience at Najib, when he remembered how the superintendent was pushing the relays of consignments along.  After all, he mused, it was no reflection on Najib’s intelligence that the poor little chap could not grasp the whole involved Occidental strike system in one hasty lecture; and that his simple mind clung to the delusion that there was some fierce general involved in it.  In the Arabian Nights was there not always a scheming sultan or a baffled wazir, in every clash with the folk of the land?  Was it unnatural that Najib should have substituted for these the mythical general of whom he thought he had seen mention in the news headline?

But, soon after dusk, Kirby had reason to know that his words had not all fallen on barren soil.  At close of the working day, Najib had brought the manager the usual diurnal report from the mine.  Now, after supper, Kirby, glancing over the report again, found a gap of terse yet complete reports.  And occasionally Kirby was obliged to summon his henchman to correct or amend the day’s tally sheet.

Wherefore, the list in his hand, the American strolled down from his own knoll-top tent toward Najib’s quarters.  As Najib was superintendent, and thus technically an official, Kirby could make such domiciliary visits without loss of prestige, instead of summoning the Syrian to his presence by handclap of by messenger, as would have been necessary in dealing with any of the other employees.

Najib’s hut lay a hundred yards beyond the hollow where the fellaheen and soldiers were encamped.  For Najib, too, had a dignity to uphold.  He might no more lodge or break bread with his underlings than might Kirby with him.  Yet, at times, preparatory to pattering up the knoll for his wonted evening chat with the American at the latter’s campfire, Najib would so far unbend as to pause at the fellaheen’s camp for a native discussion of many gestures and much loud talking.

So it was to-night.  Just outside the radius of the fellaheen’s firelight, Kirby paused.  For he heard Najib’s shrill voice uplifted in speech.  And amusedly he halted and prepared to turn back.  He had no wish to break in upon a harangue so interesting as the speaker seemed to find this one.

Najib’s voice was pitched far above the tones of normal Eastern conversation;—­louder and more excited even than that of a professional story-teller.  In Syria it is hard to believe that these professionals are merely telling an oft-heard Arabian Nights narrative; and not indulging in delirium or apoplexy.

Yet at a stray word of Najib’s, Kirby checked involuntarily his own retreat; and paused again to look back.  There stood Najib, in the center of the firelit circle; hands and head in wild motion.  Around him, spell-bound, squatted the ring of his dark-faced and unwashed hearers.  The superintendent, being with his own people, was orating in pure Arabic—­or, rather, in the colloquial vernacular which is as close to pure Arabic as one can expect to hear, except among the remoter Bedouins.