The Governor of that place was a tout à fait civilisé Young Turk, sedentary, Semitic, and very disagreeable.
"Is it true that you dropped bombs on the Mosque at Baghdad?" he asked.
And—
"Do you know that the population of Baghdad nearly killed you?"
And—
"Do you know that in another month the English will be driven into the Persian Gulf?" . . . and so on.
We denied these soft impeachments, and then his method became more direct.
"Some of your friends have been killed and captured," he said—"the commandant of your flying corps, for instance."
Seeing us incredulous, he accurately described the Major's appearance.
"And there is someone else," the kaimakam continued in slow tones that iced my blood. "Someone who may be a friend of yours. A young pilot in a fur coat."