Afar in the Forest | Page 8

Tagim. But of course, if
you're here to sow sedition, and should there be a document at large in
proof of it, which document should fall into the hands of the police--
well, I couldn't do much for you then. You'd better tell me who stabbed
you, and I'll get after him."

"Ah! But if you get the letter?"
"I shall read it, of course."
"But to whom will you show it?"
"Perhaps to my friends here."
"Are they bound by your honour?"
"I shall hold them so."
There was the glint in Grim's eye now that should warn anyone who
knew him that the scent was hot; added to the fact that the rest of his
expression suggested waning interest, that look of his forebode fine
hunting.
"There's one other I might consult," he admitted casually. "On my way
here I saw one of Feisul's staff captains driving in a cab toward the
Jaffa Gate."
The instant effect of that remark was to throw the wounded man into a
paroxysm of mingled rage and fear. He almost threw a fit. His already
bloodless face grew ashy grey and livid blue alternately, and he would
have screamed at Grim if the cough that began to rack his whole body
would have let him. As it was, he gasped out unintelligible words and
sought to make Grim understand by signs. And Grim apparently did
understand.
"Very well," he laughed, "tell me who stabbed you and I won't mention
your name to Staff-Captain Abd el Kadir."
"And these men? Will they say nothing?"
"Not a word. Who stabbed you?"
"Yussuf Dakmar! May Allah cut him off from love and mercy!"
"Golly!" exploded Jeremy, forgetting not to talk English. "There's a

swine for you! Yussuf Dakmar's the son of a sea-cook who used to sell
sheep to the Army four times over--drive 'em into camp and get a
receipt--drive 'em out again next night--bring 'em back in the morning--
get a receipt again--drive 'em off--bring 'em back--us chaps too busy
shifting brother Turk to cotton on. He'll be the boy I kicked out of camp
once. Maybe remembers it too. I'll bet his backbone's twanging yet!
Lead me to him, Grim, old cock, I'd like another piece of him!"
But Grim was humming to himself, playing piano on the bed-sheet with
his fingers.
"Is that man not an Arab?" asked the fellow in bed, taking alarm all
over again.
"Arab your aunt!" laughed Jeremy: "I eat Arabs! I'm the only original
genuine woolly bad man from way back! I'm the plumber who pulled
the plug out of Arabia! You know English? Good! You know what a
dose of salts is then? You've seen it work? Experienced it, maybe? Hah!
You'll understand me. I'm a grain of the Epsom Salt that went through
Beersheba, time the Turks had all the booze in sight and we were
thirsty. Muddy booze it was too--oozy booze--not fit for washing hogs!
Ever heard of Anzacs? Well, I'm one of 'em. Now you know what the
scorpion who stung you's up against! You lie there and think about it,
cocky; I'll show you his shirt tomorrow morning."
"Suppose we go now," suggested Grim. "I've got the drift of this thing.
Get the rest elsewhere."
"You can fan that Joskins for a lot more yet," Jeremy objected. "The
plug's pulled. He'll flow if you let him."
Grim nodded.
"Sure he would. Don't want too much from him. Don't want to have to
arrest him. Get me?"
"Come on then," answered Jeremy, "I've promised him a shirt!"

Beyond the screen Narayan Singh stood like a statue, deaf, dumb,
immovable. Even his eyes were fixed with a blank stare on the wall
opposite.
"How much did you hear?" Grim asked him.
"I, sahib? I am a sick man. I have been asleep."
"Dream anything?"
"As your honour pleases!"
"Hospital's stuffy, isn't it? Think you could recover health more rapidly
outdoors? Sick-leave continued of course, but--how about a little
exercise?"
The Sikh's eyes twinkled.
"Sahib, you know I need exercise!"
"I'll speak to the doctor for you. In case he signs a new certificate,
report to me tonight."
"Atcha, Jimgrim sahib! Atcha!"
CHAPTER III
"Hum Dekta hai"
Like most of the quarters occupied by British officers, the house
occupied by Major Roger Ticknor and his wife Mabel was "enemy
property," and its only virtue consisted in its being rent free. Grim,
Jeremy, little Ticknor and his smaller wife, and I sat facing across a
small deal table with a stuttering oil-lamp between us. In a house not
far away some Orthodox Jews, arrayed in purple and green and orange,
with fox-fur around the edges of their hats, were drunk and celebrating
noisily the Feast of Esther; so you can work out the exact date if you're