“After all,” said he, “it is you only I can ever love, Verbeena! Ah, Verbeena! You fascinating baby mine! Here—take it—this small token of the burning regard of my Sahara disposition!”
Instead of graciously accepting she nearly drove his turban through the north wall of the tent. His head was in the turban.
“I get your Oriental subtlety, you wild Eastern oaf!” cried Verbeena her red curls straightening and standing upright. “You think I’m a jade, do you?”
On the Sahara has passed into song and story the family simoon which then blew across, in, out, about, over and under tent of Amut Ben Butler.
[CHAPTER X]
Cous cous had given way to good old English bacon and eggs and marmalade on the breakfast table of the Sheik Amut Ben Butler.
“Chief,” said the Sheik half-heartedly to Verbeena, slipping a piece of bacon to his big, dangerous Persian hound that Verbeena was in the habit of kicking around so freely, “would you mind if I had a friend come and stay for a bit?”
“What kind of a character may this be?” demanded Verbeena.