“Nothing.” I answered shortly and went below.
Another certainty, arrived at during my trans-Mediterranean trip, loomed large in my plans. Re-visiting the desert after an absence of ten years I decided that I should assume my title of Sheik of the Moplah Bedouins which had been conferred upon me in recognition of having saved a native caravan from certain death due to the sudden failure of the wells at the Oasis of Sus.
Since that memorable time the Sheik, as an institution, has acquired a tremendous sentimental and romantic value which fell in admirably with my quest of the remarkable English woman who had yanked me so forcibly from the spiritual doldrums.
Tunis, Algiers, Fez and Agadir, all the important North African towns—now do a thriving business in Sheik-outfitting, the bazaars ringing with the cries of costumers, burnous-boys, veiled Circassian beauties with their trays of turbans, dealers in arms and accoutrement, saddle-sellers and camel merchants. But I needed none of this shoddy material designed entirely for the tourist trade. What I wanted was the real thing.
Two days after my arrival in Algiers I stumbled on Ab-Domen Allah, the faithful dragoman who had dragged me through Turkey and Arabia in 1902. It was sheer Traprock luck, for he was the very man I wanted, capable, resourceful and devoted.
Over a glass of coffee on the terrace of the Di Baccho I explained my needs.
“Si, si,” he hissed, patting his huge bulk delightedly. “I understand. I will attend to everything. See, we had best do thus and so.”
Dipping his fore-finger in the coffee he drew an excellent likeness of Africa on the tablecloth.
“We will enter here at Rascora on the very western edge of the desert. You can go round by water: I will meet you there with the camels. Thus we will go through the desert the long way. You will miss nothing. You are looking for something, eh?”
I hesitated, but he burst out laughing.