Amut Ben Butler strode proudly to the flap of his tent and looked out.
“You just go away from here, every one of you, do you hear? Yes, I mean you too—you big stiff with the silver cigarette case! I think it’s phoney anyway. My wife doesn’t care to have anything to do with you and I don’t either. So back to your aeroplanes and flooey!”
In horror, in abject dread Verbeena’s clubbed curls were buried in the cushions. But in a little while her distrait, white face was lifted.
“Amut,” she ventured, “Amut—has he gone?”
Amut Ben Butler carefully flicked a sandworm off his silver and black girdle.
“Sure, darling,” he answered. “I just went out and sent that whole moving picture outfit reeling, Kingpin and all!”
She crept closely to him. Her strong young arms went about him.
“Amut, my love,” she pleaded, “will you promise not to run away from me any more?”
“May Allah cross my eyes and crack my teeth, if ever again I think of it, my vibrant Verbie. I wouldn’t wanter—ever—the way you act to me now—so nice—so loving—just like a regular girlie.”
He kissed her otherwise clubbed curls.