“You——” she began in crashing opposition to any tomfoolery of a dark, questionable nature.
“Spaghetti!” snapped the Sheik.
She observed that he looked over her shoulder. She turned. She saw then a little fat man behind her just as he was answering reverently:
“Aye—aye, Monseigneur!”
“The——,” the Sheik nodded fiercely at the little man.
She hadn’t a chance. She knew it.
She saw the arm of Spaghetti only as it was descending. The hand held a canvas jacket of the size and shapely proportions of a corpulent bologna. And it was stuffed with Sahara.
“See here!” cried Verbeena. “This is rotten. It’s not cricket. I——”
“Not cricket perhaps, but quite clubby,” said Amut Ben Butler with his brutal smile.
The blow fell.