“Of course, my boy.”
“Well, you look like a Turk hard up in London, who has bought a second-hand suit of English clothes that don’t fit him.”
The doctor threw himself back and roared with laughter, while the professor joined silently in the mirth and then sat wiping his eyes, not in the least offended.
“Well done, Frank!” he said. “You’ve hit the bull’s-eye, boy. That’s exactly how I do look; and if I went to Cairo and put on a haïk and burnoose, and a few rolls of muslin round this fez, speaking Arabic as I do, and a couple of the Soudan dialects, I could go anywhere with a camel unquestioned. While as for you, my dear boy, you couldn’t go a mile. You’d be a Christian dog that every man would consider it his duty to kill.”
“I must risk that,” said Frank stubbornly.
“Must you?” said the professor. “What do you say, Bob?”
“I say it would be madness,” replied the doctor emphatically.
“Stick—stark—staring madness,” said the professor. “I, who have been out there for years, and who can be quite at home with the people, should have hard work to get through by the skin of my teeth.”
“And you would not get through, Frank,” said the doctor decisively. “This business must be carried out wisely and well.”
“What would you do, then,” said Frank impatiently.