“Good as any other, your majesty.”
“That’s what I get for paying you a flat rate for this job!” cried Verbeena fiercely, truculently. “You want to have it over as quickly as possible. Why, that caravan is going straight back to Biscuit! You know very well that it’s a month for me in the desert or nothing. I went all over it with you about six thousand times. Nothing under a month will do and it will not be until we have traveled six days deep on this old sandcarpet, Musty, you brass-faced blurb, before I’ll begin looking about for more permanent arrangements. What a ninny I was to have paid you two dollars in advance!”
O’er the swart features of the under Shereef shot a spasm of anger. But he dodged a cigarette butt with fine skill and masked his feelings under glinting eyes.
“Give my compliments to that grimy-looking outfit,” said Verbeena tartly, “and let’s step along.”
MUSTY ALE, A LOW, UNSCRUPULOUS FELLOW.
“#$%&) )$’’’’&&&%***’!!!!” (Chesty Redhead!) murmured Musty Ale when he was well out of range.
Suddenly a white figure, big as a circus tent and looking the same, detached itself from the other roughriders, whirled up to Musty and the black whiskers of this new demon parted widely showing a very superior set of sharply pointed white fangs.
“Hollerwoller, hippolo, jazzamarabi zop zing!”
“I wouldn’t care if you did,” replied Musty promptly. “How much?”