“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Have a drink. Help yourself. Now who would stand to gain most by stealing weapons? Eh? Who are they who want to possess a country owned by present by Arabs—who are being threatened everlastingly by Arabs—who have no weapons of their own, and whose grip on the country is only made temporarily possible by an army of occupation dependent on the whims of a Foreign Office? The Zionists, eh? D’you get me?”
“Then you mean—”
“I mean this: The Arabs have lots of weapons hidden away. The Zionists have none—or had none until this thieving started. The Zionists believe, what I’m quite sure of, that they’re going to get left in the lurch by our Foreign Office sooner or later. So they’ve hired Arabs to steal rifles for them, for Jews to use against Arabs later on. D’you follow me?”
“I see the drift.”
“Kettle and Anthony and the rest of them imagine that the Zionists are going to have it all their own way with the backing of the British Government. But I know better. I happen to have influential connections at home who keep me posted; and between you and me the Zionists are going to be told before long to paddle their own canoe.
“Of course, the Zionists have their own friends at the Foreign Office, who keep them posted, too; they know as well as you and I do what’s likely to happen, and that the minute it does they’ll be at the mercy of the Arabs unless they can arm themselves in advance. Failing arms, they’ll have to get out of the country. That’s inevitable finally; they’ll have to get out. You can take my word for it, the solution of this Palestine problem is going to be an Arab kingdom. The Zionists haven’t a chance.”
Jim saw no reason to argue with a man who chose to back a losing horse. He sat still.
“I rather think General Anthony himself suspects this thieving is the work of Zionists,” Jenkins went on. “But he’s afraid of Zionists, as well as more than half in favor of them. I’m not. I know which side my bread is buttered on, and I’m pro-Arab to the core. Are you?”
“I’m extremely partial to Arabs,” Jim answered guardedly. “Can’t help liking them.”
“So we’ll just take a fall out of the Zionists ahead of time, and let the Arabs know who their individual friends are, with an eye to the future. Get after that iblis, as they call him, Grim, as soon as you like. Scratch him and I think you’ll find a Jew; if not, you’ll discover a Jew somewhere back of him.”
“I thought of getting on his trail tonight,” said Jim.
“Good. Do. Report to me and to no one else. See you in the morning, then. So long.”
* * * * *
Ten minutes later Jim turned up at Catesby’s tent.
“No ‘home on a trooper’ for you, old man! This Jenkins bird is going to provide you with work.”
“But you’ve got to whitewash the brute!”
“Sure. The Lord alone knows how yet, but he shall have such an elegant ducking in white paint that it won’t ever come off. Your parole’s to be raised for fourteen days, and we’ll work together to pump Jinks so full of self- importance that he’ll burst. Meanwhile, I’ll get some sleep. You do the same. Don’t forget, if anybody asks, that you need liberty to hunt up evidence to clear yourself. So long.”
CHAPTER IV
“Moreover, Jimgrim, you are my friend!”
No city in the world can vie with a great camp for binding spells, by night especially; for the city only represents what men have done, whereas the camp allures with what they mean to do. The policeman at a crossing signifies that what today approves tomorrow will repeat. The sentry with firelight dancing on his pointed steel denotes the alertness of unfolding destiny. The entertainment of a city is the fruit of things accomplished, growing rotten, but the thrilling murmur of a camp by night is the prelude to new heavens and a new earth.
There was no moon when Jim led the way between the whickering horse- lines, followed by Catesby, Narayan Singh and Suliman. They were all dressed as Arabs, so that every sentry challenged them, and once a bayonet point pierced through Jim’s garments to his skin before he could reply; for the Sikh on duty likes his ceremony swift, and takes no chances.
Each time that Jim whispered the password the four were followed into the shadows by wondering, suspicious eyes; then, as if afterthought increased suspicion, the sentry’s voice would call out harshly to the next ahead, and three times before they reached the camp gate an officer was fetched to quiz them.
In no single instance did Jim give the names of his party, not even when the guard at the gap in a barb wire fence that they called the south gate held them up for five minutes and scoffed at the slip of paper he produced. He did not want his movements gossiped all over the camp.
So they were all four submitted to search at the gate as presumptive thieves, by a Sikh jemadar who feared no writing nor regarded words.
His disrespectful fingers uncovered naturally three loaded automatic pistols; and—ace of unexpectedness—a Gurkha kukri from under Suliman’s shirt. That settled it, of course.
“Into the lock-up with them until morning!” he ordered, being one of those priceless guardians who are not afraid of responsibility.
“The luck’s not running my way,” grunted Catesby. “This’ll give Jinks the finest chance the brute could ask for to show me up in a bad light. My name’s Walker!”
“Don’t you believe it. Cut loose, Narayan Singh,” Jim whispered.
There followed an interlude in the Jat dialect that restored Catesby’s normal high spirits, it being one of the conventions of the British Army that an officer of Sikhs must understand the language of his men, whereas the men’s knowledge of English is optional and rather rare. It ended in Narayan Singh disrobing in the guardroom light to show his steel bracelet, the steel dagger in his hair, and certain other peculiarities of Sikh attire to which he is more loyal than a Scotsman to his kilts. Those, the language, and an intimate knowledge of he jemadar’s own personal, private and amusing immortal history proved at last convincing.
But the jemadar kept the kukri. There was not explaining that away.
“How shall I hunt an iblis without that thing?” demanded Suliman, appealing to Jim in the shadow much too wise to argue with the Sikh.
“Where did you get it? Did a Gurkha lend it to you?”
“No. The fool refused. So I stole it while he drank.”
“Come on. We’ve wasted time enough. You must face the iblis with bare hands.”
* * * * *
Now Catesby led, for he knew the lie of the land. Jim followed him, and Narayan Singh brought up the rear in darkness so deep that it was all one could do to keep the leading man in sight. The sky overhead was clear, and the stars shone like scattered diamonds, but they were following a shallow wady (valley) between cactus, and the gloom of the night before the worlds were made seemed to have gathered in it. They went nearly a mile at a slow pace before Catesby stopped to take his bearings. Then Jim missed Suliman.
He did not dare shout for him, for that would have brought to the scene every scrub-haunting thief in the neighborhood. He called once in a low voice, but all the answer was the ghoul-like laugh of a hyena, and a moment later he made out the brute’s green eyes, very low to the ground and moving the way a lantern swings.
“I rather thought it was a mistake to bring that kid,” said Catesby. “Didn’t like to question