The Talbot Mundy Megapack. Talbot Mundy

a pugnacious instinct, who make such astonishing fighting-men in the intervals between sulking and a sort of half affectionate abuse of everything in sight. Being impatient to begin the adventure, I suggested more speed.

      “Oh!” he answered. “So you’re another o’ these people in an ’urry to get to Jericho! It’s strynge. The last one was a Harab. Tyke it from me, gov’nor, I’ve driven the very last Harab as gets more than twenty-five miles an hour out o’ me, so ’elp me—”

      He tooled the car out on to the road toward Bethany, and down the steep hill that passes under the Garden of Gethsemane, before vouchsafing another word. Then, as we started to climb the hill ahead, he jerked his chin in the direction of the sharp turn we had just passed in the bottom of the valley. “Took that corner las’ time on one wheel!”

      “For the Arab?”

      “Aye. Taught me a lesson. Never agayn! I ain’t no Arabian Night. Nor yet no self-immolatin’ ’Indoo invitin’ no juggernauts to make no pancykes out o’ me. ’Enceforth, I drives reasonable. All Harabs may go to ’ell for all o’ me.”

      He was itching to tell his story. He was likely to tell it quicker for not being questioned; your Cockney dislikes anything he can construe into inquisition. I remarked that the road didn’t seem made for speed—too narrow and too rough—and let it go at that.

      He said no more until we reached the village of Bethany, and drew abreast of Lazarus’ reputed tomb, where a pack of scavenger-dogs awoke and yelped around the wheels. He did his best to run over one of them, but missed. Then he could not hold his story any longer.

“Two nights ago,” he said, “they gives me orders to take a Harab to a point near Jericho. After dark, I starts off, ’im on the back seat; engine ain’t warm yet, so we goes slow. He leans forward after a couple o’ minutes, an says ‘Yalla kawam’!”5 So I thinks to myself I’ll show the blighter a thing or two, me not bein’ used to takin’ orders from no Harabs. Soon as the engine’s ’ot I lets rip, an’ you know now what the road’s like. When we gets to the top o’ that ’ill above Gethsemane I lets extry special rip. Thinks I, if you can stand what I can, my son, you’ve guts.

      “Well, we ’its all the ’igh places, and lands on a bit o’ level road just often enough to pick up more speed—comes round that sharp bend on ’alf a wheel, syme as I told you—kills three pye-dogs for sure, an’ maybe others, but I don’t dare look round—misses a camel in the dark that close that the ’air on my arms an’ legs fair crawled up an’ down me—’it’s a lump o’ rock that comes near tippin’ us into the ditch—an’ carries on faster ’an ever. By the time we gets ’ere to Bethany, thinks I, it’s time to take a look an’ see if my passenger’s still in the bloomin’ car. So I slows down.

      “The minute I turns my ’ead to ’ave a peer at ’im, ‘Kawam!’ ’e says. ‘Quick! Quick!’

“So it strikes me I weren’t in no such ’urry after all. Why ’urry for a Harab? The car’s been rattlin’ worse ’n a tinker’s basket. I gets down to ’ave a look—lights a gasper6—an’ takes my bloomin’ time about it. You seen them yellow curs there by Lazarus’ tomb? Well, they come for me, yappin’ an’ snarlin’ to beat ’ell. I’m pickin’ up stones to break their ’eads with—good stones ain’t such easy findin’ in the dark, an’ every time I stoops ’alf a dozen curs makes a rush for me—when what d’you suppose? That bloomin’ Harab passenger o’ mine vaults over into my seat, an’ afore I could say ‘’ell’s bells’ ’e’s off. I’d left the engine runnin’. By the luck o’ the Lord I ’angs on, an’ scrambles in—back seat.

      “I thought at first I’d reach over an’ get a half-nelson on ’im from behind. But, strike me blind! I didn’t dare!

      “Look where we are now. Can you see the ’air-pin turn at the bottom of this ’ill, with a ditch, beyond it? Well, we takes that turn in pitch-dark shadow with all four wheels in the air, an’ you’d ’a thought we was a blinkin’ airplane a doin’ stunts. But ’e’s a hexpert, ’e is, an’ we ’olds the road. From there on we goes in one ’oly murderin’ streak to a point about ’alf way up the ’ill where the Inn of the Good Samaritan stands on top. There we ’as two blow-outs simultaneous, an’ thinks I, now, my son, I’ve got you! I gets out.

      “‘You can drive,’ I says, ‘like Jehu son o’ Nimshi what made Israel to sin. Let’s see you make bricks now without no bleedin’ straw!’ I knew there weren’t no tools under the seat—there never are in this ’ere country if you’ve left your car out o’ your sight for five minutes. ‘You take off them two back tires,’ I says, ‘while I sit ’ere an’ meditate on the ways of Harabs! Maybe you’re Moses,’ I says, ‘an’ know ’ow to work a miracle.’

      “But the only miracle about that bloke’s ’is nerve. ’E gets out, an’ begins to walk straight on up’ill without as much as a by-your-leave. I shouts to ’im to come back. But ’e walks on. So I picks up a stone off the pile I was sittin’ on, an’ I plugs ’im good—’its ’im fair between the shoulder-blades. You’d think, if ’e was a Harab, that ’ud bring ’im to ’is senses, wouldn’t you? But what d’you suppose the blighter did?

      “Did you notice my left eye when you got in the car? ’E turns back, an’ thinks I, ’e’s goin’ to knife me. But that sport could use ’is fists, an’ believe me, ’e done it! I can use ’em a bit myself, an’ I starts in to knock ’is block off, but ’e puts it all over me—weight, reach an’ science. Mind you, science! First Arab ever I see what ’ad science; an’ I don’t more than ’alf believe it now!

      “Got to ’and it to ’im. ’E was merciful. ’E let up on me the minute ’e see I’d ’ad enough. ’E starts off up’ill again. I sits where ’e’d knocked me on to a stone pile, wishin’ like ’ell for a drink. It was full moonlight, an’ you could see for miles. After about fifteen minutes, me still meditatin’ murder an’ considerin’ my thirst I seen ’em fetch a camel out o’ the khan at the Inn o’ the Good Samaritan; an’ next thing you know, ’e’s out o’ sight. Thinks I, that’s the last of ’im, an’ good riddance! But not a bit of it!

      “The men what fetched the camel for ’im comes down to me an’ says the sheikh ’as left word I’m to be fed an’ looked after. They fixes me up at the inn with a cot an’ blankets an’ a supper o’ sorts, an’ I lies awake listenin’ to ’em talkin’ Arabic, under­standin’ maybe one word out of six or seven. From what I can make o’ their conjecturin’, they think ’e ain’t no sheikh at all, but a bloomin’ British officer in disguise!

      “Soon as morning comes I jump a passing commissariat lorry. As soon as I gets to Jerusalem I reports that sheikh for arson, theft, felo de se, busting a gov’ment car, usin’ ’is fists when by right ’e should ha’ knifed me, an’ every other crime I could think of. An’ all I gets is laughed at! What d’you make of it? Think ’e was a Harab?”

      I wondered whether he was Jimgrim, but did not say so. Grim had not appeared to me like a man who would use his fists at all readily; but he was such an unusual individual that it was useless trying to outline what he might or might not do. It was also quite likely that the chauffeur had omitted mention of, say, nine-tenths of the provocation he gave his passenger. What interested me most was the thought that, if that really was Jimgrim, he must have been in a prodigious hurry about something; and that most likely meant excitement, if not danger across the Dead Sea.

      We caught sight of the Dead Sea presently, bowling past the Inn of the Good Samaritan and beginning to descend into the valley, twelve hundred feet below sea level, that separates Palestine from Moab. The moon shone full on the water, and it looked more wan and wild than an illustration out of Dante’s Inferno. There was no doubt how the legends sprang up about birds falling dead as they flew across it. It was difficult to believe that anything