This was done; and I was proud of the inspiration, with the pride that comes before a fall. When I began to write, in my bedroom tent, wrapped in all the blankets of the bed that should be Anthony's, I had the place to myself. But about midnight a head was unexpectedly thrust through the door-flap. It looked ghostly in the haze of colour made by the gorgeous appliqué work of high roof and octagon walls, which gave an effect of sitting at the bottom of a giant kaleidoscope.
"Who's that?" I hissed, in a whisper meant to be discreet, but which roused a camel or two in the ring outside the tents.
"Biddell—Sir John Biddell," replied the head. "I saw your light, and remembered you had your tent to yourself to-night. Those hot-water bottles have been leaking. There's one at least gone wrong in most of the ladies' tents. The married men have given their beds to girls who are drowned out. 'Twas your idea about those bottles, wasn't it? I expect you'll hear from it in the morning! Three of us want to come and camp in here with you."
"All right," I sighed, with a sinking heart. "I like sitting up, and you can toss for the cots."
At this moment Sir John Biddell reposes in one of them, General Harlow in the other. These gentlemen were so affected with the cold that they went to bed in their clothes, then got up to put on their overcoats, then got up again and put on their hats. On the floor lies a certain Mills of Manchester, rolled in all the rugs, except one which I have on, after surrendering my blankets. He has his head in a basket, to keep off the icy draught; and in the ruggy region of his spine, as he rests on his side, are the letters C-O-O-K. I wonder if I could rip them off without waking him up?
CHAPTER XV
THE DESERT DIARY TO ITS BITTER END
Tuesday: The principal water-cask has leaked; consequently not enough water to go round. Chêf said it was a question of baths, or soup. Considering the cold, most of the people voted for soup. Some washed in Apollinaris. Others douched with soda siphons. We can get more water to-night. Can't think why the north wind doesn't stop and warm itself while traversing the Mediterranean or the hot sands! It seems to be in too fierce a hurry and consequently cuts across the desert, like a frozen scythe, the moment its rival the sun has gone to sleep. I hear that Miss Hassett-Bean cried with cold as she dressed, and put on two of everything; but she is luckier than the younger women. Monny and Mrs. East, though warned that nights would be chill, have come clothed in silk and gossamer, and have brought low-necked nightgowns of nainsook trimmed with lace. This was confided to me soon after sunrise by a blue-nosed Biddy, hovering over the kitchen fire and —incidentally—ingratiating herself with the cook. It wouldn't be Biddy if she weren't ingratiating herself with some one!