Afar in the Forest | Page 2

sworn supporter in the bargain, the heart of Grim's purpose continued
to be a mystery even to me; and I have been as intimate with him as
any man.
He doles out what he has in mind as grudgingly as any Scot spends the
shillings in his purse. But the Scots are generous when they have to be,
and so is Grim. There being nothing else for it on that occasion, he
spilled the beans, the whole beans, and nothing but the beans. Having
admitted us two to his secret, he dilated on it all the way back to
Jerusalem, telling us all he knew of Feisul (which would fill a book),

and growing almost lyrical at times as he related incidents in proof of
his contention that Feisul, lineal descendant of the Prophet Mohammed,
is the "whitest" Arab and most gallant leader of his race since Saladin.
Knowing Grim and how carefully suppressed his enthusiasm usually is,
I couldn't help being fired by all he said on that occasion.
And as for Jeremy, well--it was like meat and drink to him. You meet
men more or less like Jeremy Ross in any of earth's wild places,
although you rarely meet his equal for audacity, irreverence and riotous
good-fellowship. He isn't the only Australian by a long shot who
upholds Australia by fist and boast and astounding gallantry, yet stays
away from home. You couldn't fix Jeremy with concrete; he'd find
some means of bursting any mould.
He had been too long lost in the heart of Arabia for anything except the
thought of Sydney Bluffs and the homesteads that lie beyond to tempt
him for the first few days.
"You fellers come with me," he insisted. "You chuck the Army, Grim,
and I'll show you a country where the cows have to bend their backs to
let the sun go down. Ha-ha! Show you women too--red-lipped girls in
sunbonnets, that'll look good after the splay-footed crows you see out
here. Tell you what: We'll pick up the Orient boat at Port Said--no P.
and O. for me; I'm a passenger aboard ship, not a horrible example!--
and make a wake for the Bull's Kid. Murder! Won't the scoff taste
good!
"We'll hit the Bull's Kid hard for about a week--mix it with the fellers
in from way back--you know--dry-blowers, pearlers, spending it easy--
handing their money to Bessie behind the bar and restless because she
makes it last too long; watch them a while and get in touch with all
that's happening; then flit out of Sydney like bats out of--and hump
blue--eh?"
"Something'll turn up; it always does. I've got money in the bank--
about, two thousand here in gold dust with me,--and if what you say's
true, Grim, about me still being a trooper, then the Army owes me three

years' back pay, and I'll have it or go to Buckingham Palace and tear off
a piece of the King! We're capitalists, by Jupiter! Besides, you fellers
agreed that if I shut down the mine at Abu Kem you'd join me and we'd
be Grim, Ramsden and Ross."
"I'll keep the bargain if you hold me to it when the time comes," Grim
answered.
"You bet I'll hold you to it! Rammy here, and you and I could trade the
chosen people off the map between us. We're a combination. What's
time got to do with it?"
"We've got to use your mine," Grim answered.
"I'm game. But let's see Australia first."
"Suppose we fix up your discharge, and you go home," Grim suggested.
"Come back when you've had a vacation, and by that time Ramsden
and I will have done what's possible for Feisul. He's in Damascus now,
but the French have got him backed into a corner. No money--not much
ammunition--French propaganda undermining the allegiance of his
men-- time working against him, and nothing to do but wait."
"What in hell have the French got to do with it?"
"They want Syria. They've got the coast towns now. They mean to have
Damascus; and if they can catch Feisul and jail him to keep him out of
mischief they will."
"But damn it! Didn't they promise the Arabs that Feisul should be King
of Syria, Palestine, Mesopotamia, and all that?"
"They did. The Allies all promised, France included. But since the
Armistice the British have made a present of Palestine to the Jews, and
the French have demanded Syria for themselves. The British are
pro-Feisul, but the French don't want him anywhere except dead or in
jail. They know they've given him and the Arabs a raw deal; and they
seem to think the simplest way out is to blacken Feisul's character and

ditch him. If the French once catch him in Damascus he's done for and
the