And Kirby was reminded of Najib’s quoted dictum that “laughter is for women and for hyenas.”  The memory brought back to him his squat henchman’s weird jumbling of the strike system.  And he smiled in reminiscent mirth.

The Syrian had been his comrade in many a vicissitude And he knew that Najib’s fondness for him was as sincere as can be that of any Oriental for a foreigner, an affection based not wholly on self-interest.  Kirby enjoyed his evening powwows with superintendent beside the campfire; and the little man’s amazing faculty for mangling the English tongue.

He rather missed Najib’s presence to-night.  But he was not to miss it for long.  Just as he was about to knock out his pipe and go to bed, the native came pattering up the slope on excitedly rapid feet; and squatted as usual on the ground beside the American’s lounging chair.  In Najib’s manner there was a scarce-repressed jubilant thrill.  His beady eyes shone wildly.  Hardly had he seated himself when he broke the custom of momentary grave silence by blurting forth: 

“Furthermore, howadji, I am the bearer of gladly tidings which will make you to beshout yourself aloud for joyfulness and leap about and besclaim:  ‘Pretty fair!’ and other words of a grand rapture.  For the bird will sing gleesome dirges in your heart!”

“Well?” queried Kirby in no especial excitement.  “I’m listening.  But if the news is really so wonderful you surely took your time in bringing it.  I’ve been here all evening, while you’ve stayed below there, trying to increase those fellaheens’ stock of ignorance.  What’s the idea?”

“Oh, I prythee you, do not let my awayness beget your goat, howadji!” pleaded Najib, ever sensitive to any hint of reproof from his master.  “It was that which made the grand tidings.  If I had not of been where I have been this evening—­and doing what I have done—­there would not be any tidings at all.  I made the tidings myself.  Both of them.  And I made them for you. Is it that I may now tell them to you, howadji?”

“Go ahead,” adjured Kirby, humouring the wistful eagerness of the man.  “What’s the news you have for me?”

“It is more than just a ‘news,’ howadji,” corrected Najib with jealous regard for shades of meaning.  “It is a tidings.  And it is this:  You and my poor self and the fellaheen and even those hell-selected pashalik soldiers—­we are all to be rich.  Most especially you, howadji.  Wealthiness bewaits us all.  No longer shall any of us be downward and outward from povertude.  No more shall any of us toil early and belatedly.  We shall all live in easiness of hours and with much payment. Inshallah!  Alhandulillah!" he concluded, his rising excitement for once bursting the carefully nourished bounds of English and overflowing into Arabic expletive.

Noting his own lapse into his native language, he looked sheepishly at Kirby, as though hoping the American had not heard the break.  Then, with mounting eagerness, Najib struck the climax of his narrative.