“And who is she that I—but thanks for the tip. Allah keep the fleas off you, me lad.”
“Thanks yourself,” answered Musty, “although he never has yet.”
But the white circus tent on the plunging black beastie was already far away.
[CHAPTER IV]
Verbeena had thought when Musty Ale held back to have a talk with the large gentleman in the white wrappings her sulky retainer was doubtless obeying her order to tell the person who seemed to be the Admiral Beattie of the desert ships, that in the matter of her joining his particular caravan there would be nothing the whatsoever doing.
She was very much annoyed therefore to discover that this man in the prominently large turban had evidently refused to take Musty’s word for it and meant to talk the matter over with her in person. It would seem so. His black horse—Verbie could see it was no dog—was doing about 1,59-1/2 in her direction.
There might be a whole lot that Verbeena did not know about the other sex.
But she was fully cognizant what Arabic bargaining meant. Starting to dicker at one in the afternoon of a perfect day in June one continued to the following Shrove Tuesday.