Afar in the Forest | Page 4

the way from Abu Kem, it seemed already about
as stale and unattractive to him as some of his oldest tricks. And
Jerusalem provided plenty of distraction. We hadn't been in Grim's
quarters half an hour when Jeremy was up to his ears in a dispute that
looked like separating us.
Grim, who wears his Arab clothes from preference and never gets into
uniform if he can help it, went straight to the telephone to report briefly
to headquarters. I took Jeremy upstairs to discard my Indian disguise
and hunt out clothes for Jeremy that would fit him, but found none, I
being nearly as heavy as Grim and Jeremy together. He had finished
clowning in the kit I offered him, and had got back into his Arab things
while I was shaving off the black whiskers with which Nature adorns
my face whenever I neglect the razor for a few days, when an auto
came tooting and roaring down the narrow street, and a moment later
three staff officers took the stairs at a run. So far, good; that was
unofficial, good-natured, human and entirely decent. The three of them
burst through the bed room door, all grins, and took turns pumping with
Jeremy's right arm--glad to see him--proud to know him--pleased to see
him looking fit and well, and all that kind of thing. Even men who had

fought all through the war had forgotten some of its red tape by that
time, and Jeremy not being in uniform they treated him like a fellow
human being. And he reciprocated, Australian fashion, free and easy,
throwing up his long legs on my bed and yelling for somebody to bring
drinks for the crowd, while they showered questions on him.
It wasn't until Jeremy turned the tables and began to question them that
the first cloud showed itself.
"Say, old top," he demanded of a man who wore the crossed swords of
a brigadier. "Grim tells me I'm a trooper. When can I get my
discharge?"
The effect was instantaneous. You would have thought they had
touched a leper by the way they drew themselves up and changed face.
"Never thought of that. Oh, I say--this is a complication. You mean...?"
"I mean this," Jeremy answered dryly, because nobody could have
helped notice their change of attitude: "I was made prisoner by Arabs
and carried off. That's more than three years ago. The war's over. Grim
tells me all Australians have been sent home and discharged. What
about me?"
"Um-m-m! Ah! This will have to be considered. Let's see; to whom did
you surrender?"
"Damn you, I didn't surrender! I met Grim in the desert, and reported to
him for duty."
"Met Major Grim, eh?"
"Yes," said Grim, appearing in the door. "I came across him in the
desert; he reported for duty; I gave him an order, and he obeyed it.
Everything's regular."
"Um-m-m! How'd you make that out--regular? Have you any proof he
wasn't a deserter? He'll have to be charged with desertion and tried by

court martial, I'm afraid. Possibly a mere formality, but it'll have to be
done, you know, before he can be given a clear discharge. If he can't be
proved guilty of desertion he'll be cleared."
"How long will that take?" Jeremy demanded.
His voice rang sharp with the challenge note that means debate has
ceased and quarrel started. It isn't the right note for dissolving
difficulties.
"Couldn't tell you," said the brigadier. "My advice to you is to keep
yourself as inconspicuous as possible until the administrator gets back."
It was good advice, but Grim, standing behind the brigadier, made
signals to Jeremy in vain. Few Australians talk peace when there is no
peace, and when there's a fight in prospect they like to get it over.
"I remember you," said Jeremy, speaking rather, slowly, and throwing
in a little catchy laugh that was like a war-cry heard through a
microphone. "You were the Fusileer major they lent to the Jordan
Highlanders--fine force that--no advance without security--lost two
men, if I remember--snakebite one; the other shot for looting. Am I
right? So they've made you a brigadier! Aren't you the staff officer they
sent to strafe a regiment of Anzacs for going into action without orders?
We chased you to cover! I can see you now running for fear we'd shoot
you! Hah!"
Grim took the only course possible in the circumstances. The
brigadier's neck was crimson, and Jeremy had to be saved somehow.
"Touch of sun, sir--that and hardship have unhinged him a bit. Suffers
from delusions. Suppose I keep him here until the doctor sees him?"
"Um-m-m! Ah! Yes, you'd better. See he gets no whisky, will you? Too
bad! Too bad! What a pity!"
Our three visitors left in a