So the American cursed them all impartially in the name of Allah and bade them leave him alone, which they did willingly. There being nothing better to do, he gave himself up to waiting; but an hour later he was pleasurably surprised by the arrival of no less a person than Potbelly himself.
Now, however, he came in his own guise. No longer a Kiswahili, he had doffed his pseudo-mission clothes and came in all the stately pride of a Hazrami, an Arab of the Arabs, masterless, and bowing to no man.
Yet, in spite of his white burnoose and green turban of the pilgrimage, he was weary and in much need of repair, having plainly come through the bush. He insisted on speaking French, also, to the further annoyance of Hammer, though the American could understand him well enough.
"It's about time you came, Potbelly," grunted Hammer ungraciously. "What's your news? Where's Solomon?"
For answer the Arab settled himself on a rug, clapped his hands, and demanded coffee from the boy who came, and then saw to it that his proper self made a proper impression on Hammer.
"I am no longer Potbelly, m'sieu', but the Hajj Omar ibn Kasim el Hamumi——"
"I don't care a whoop who you are!" exclaimed Hammer angrily. "Give me your message or get out of here!"
A wounded look from Omar ibn Kasim was followed promptly by his news, as he met the eye of Hammer, and saw fury smouldering there.
But, mindful of the words of John Solomon, the American forced himself to restraint and let Omar tell the tale in his own fashion, which consisted largely in dwelling on every little circumstance to the full, and lauding his own efforts with great self-satisfaction.
The gist of the tale, as Hammer finally extracted it, was that Omar had held Dr. Krausz and his men helpless until Hammer and Sara Helmuth had obtained a good start on any possible pursuit.