They scratched themselves so fearlessly!
They breathed garlic gloriously!
And they sang—always. And always the same tune to the simp-simp-simp of their two string ukeleles with the palm twig picks. It was beautiful to Verbeena that same, same tune, grateful to her ear that liquid, languorous simp-simp-simp, an ear as exquisitely tone deaf as that of any good, up-to-date composer.
Then suddenly black specks danced before her eyes!
Was it liver?
No!
By Jove, it was a caravan on the horizon of the jolly old Sahara!
As it finally came right up close the vim of Verbeena’s interest grew somewhat vitiated. There were twenty camels and a big bunch of horsemen, and proximity proved that they were bathed in sunlight alone. Several of the camels halted and knelt and a dozen figures jounced down from the palanquins whose curtains hadn’t been changed that Spring. The figures she knew to be those of Sahara ladies.
“How about this outfit, Queen?” asked Musty Ale.
“Nope—don’t care about ’em.”