“We shall indeed. Poor old pater! Wouldn’t he have the blues if he knew where I am!”
CHAPTER VIII—THE SWORDSMITH OF AIN AFROO
The approaching advent of the Jew had introduced a new element of danger into the enterprise. If he should reach the village before Ingleton was released, clearly the game was up. Instead of getting a good sleep, Tom lay awake, talking over the situation with Oliphant. He got Abdul to describe the kasbah, but the description was so vague—the Moor when he lived in the village having taken the stronghold for granted—that he felt incapable of making any plans without seeing the place for himself. When he made this suggestion Oliphant scouted it.
“For one thing,” he said, “it’s too dangerous; for another, where do I come in?”
“Of course I should have to take Abdul—or rather he would have to take me; and however dangerous it would be for two, it would be still more dangerous for three. If you’ll stay and keep an eye on the airship, I’ll take advantage of the moonlight and go and have a look round. Your turn will come, you may be sure of that. If I don’t come back, you know how to set the machine going. Scoot back to the yacht, and get Mr. Greatorex to make straight for Tangier.”
“There’ll be a pretty row about this before we’ve done with it! All right!—if you will go. But I say, they’ll spot you for a foreigner if any one catches sight of you—in those clothes.”
“Yes; I forgot that. I wish I’d provided myself with a rig-out in the Moorish style.”
Here Abdul produced from the folds of his djellab a small bundle, which, being unrolled, proved to be a long grey garment with a pair of yellow shoes wrapped in it.
“You’re a brick, Abdul!” cried Tom. “You guessed I’d want something of this sort, eh?”
“Yes, master. I could only get one.”