"Shorty can cook," said a voice from the rear. "He used to run a hot-dog stand on Ventura Boulevard."
"O.K.!" said Orman. "Miss Terry is chief cook; Jimmy and Shorty will help her; Pat will detail three more for K.P. every day. Now get busy. While the cooks are rustling some grub the rest of you strike the tents and load the trucks."
"Oh, Tom," said Naomi Madison at his elbow, "my personal boy has run away with the others. I wish you would detail one of the men to take his place."
Orman wheeled and looked at her in astonishment. "I'd forgotten all about you, Naomi. I'm glad you reminded me. If you can't cook, and I don't suppose you can, you'll peel spuds, wait on the tables, and help wash dishes."
For a moment the Madison looked aghast; then she smiled icily. "I suppose you think you are funny," she said, "but really this is no time for joking."
"I'm not joking, Naomi." His tone was serious, his face unsmiling.
"Do you mean to say that you expect me, Naomi Madison, to peel potatoes, wait on tables, and wash dishes! Don't be ridiculous—I shall do nothing of the kind."
"Be yourself, Naomi! Before Milt Smith discovered you you were slinging hash in a joint on Main Street; and you'll do it again here, or you won't eat." He turned and walked away.
During breakfast Naomi Madison sat in haughty aloofness in the back seat of an automobile. She did not wait on table, nor did she eat.
Americans and Arabs formed the advance and rear guards when the safari finally got under way; but the crew that cut trail was wholly American—the Arabs would fight, but they would not work; that was beneath their dignity.