"Hullo, Johnson!" said Smith, recognizing in the speaker a messmate of his middy days, now a naval officer in the Sultan's service; "I say, you can do something for me."
"I dare say I can," replied the other laughing, "but where do you spring from? I didn't know you were in these parts."
"Only arrived five minutes ago, from London."
Johnson stared.
"Not in that machine?"
"Yes, certainly. Eight hours' run; a record, isn't it? But I'm short of petrol. There's some ordered by wire from a man named Benzonana; can you put me in the way of getting it quickly?"
"Of course. Benzonana's a Jew, with stores at Kourshounlou Han. But there's no hurry. We'll get some one to look after your aeroplane, and you'll come back with me to the club: this sort of thing doesn't happen every day, old man. By Jove! Do you really mean to say you've got here in eight hours from London?"
The captain looked suspiciously from the two grimy travellers to the spick-and-span Englishman.
"I left there at 12.35 this morning. Barracombe—you remember him—saw me off. But I'm sorry I can't come with you, Dick. I've only a couple of hours to spare, and must get the petrol at once."