“Certainly,” continued Jack. “You are the commander-in-chief. Mind your men don’t bolt or get drunk. You can’t trust an Arab.”
“If one go wrong, me shoot him down.”
Monday spoke to the men, telling them he was to be the leader of the small brigade.
They acquiesced.
It mattered little to them who had the lead.
Coffee and biscuits with dates were supplied them, as well as tobacco and pipes, as they lounged on the divans all round the room.
Monday strapped a sword round his waist and marched up and down as proud as a peacock.
This kind of thing suited him down to the ground.
He liked to command.
His vanity was flattered and his dignity gratified.