"Yes, you will— I think I see myself!"
The Colonel slapped a coin on the table briskly.
"Come on, Joe—we never matched for bric-à-brac before. Let's be game—just this time."
What was the use? The Apostle resisted—at first violently, then feebly—then he matched—and lost.
For a moment he could hardly realize the extent of his disaster. Then he reached for the mixture in front of him, swallowed it, gagged, and choked alarmingly. When he could get his voice, he said:
"I'm the hellfiredest fool in Syria. I walked four hundred miles to buy those things."
The Horse-Doctor regarded him thoughtfully.
"You always interest me," he said. "I don't know whether it's your shape or your mental habitudes. Both are so peculiar."
After which we left the Apostle—that is, we stood from under and went in to dinner.
The Apostle is a good traveller, however—all the Reprobates are. They take things as they find them, which cannot be said for all of our people. One wonders what some of them expected in Damascus—probably steamer fare and New York hotel accommodations. I judge this from their remarks.