“Sultana?”
“I don’t like that fruit-cracker word either, my good man. Queen! And don’t forget it. And don’t look cross at me in your mysterious Oriental way. You might as well get used to it. Perhaps I’m not a queen yet but,” as she filled her three slim gold cigarette cases, “I soon will be. Queen. Understand?”
“%—&&&&&*% *(*)#**’’*# —— —-!!!!.” muttered Musty in his native tongue. (A darned barefaced queen in britches! May the Prophet part me from my whiskers!)”
“What, sirrah?”
“Allah witness, I said nothing.”
“Keep right on doing that,” said Verbeena.
Her words came in a tone of authority which added to the fact that she accurately snapped a live fag end at his right eye, caused Musty to sink through his jelab or Sahara overcoat.
But after he had dug himself a shell hole in the desert, he said from deeply beneath his head wrappings:
“O, Queen, if we don’t start soon we are sure to miss perhaps some of the most select outgoing caravans. By the fringe of the Prophet—but we surely will!”