Billy, ever practical, turned to the work of gauging the war-plane tanks.
“Down to bed-rock, Buddy,” he reported ruefully. “Twenty-five miles more would finish us.”
“You’re a regular vandal, pard,” dreamily protested Henri, backstretched on the grass, his head pillowed on his hands.
The dreamer, however, in the next moment was sitting up and taking notice, for majestically approaching from the shady recesses of the nearest orchard was the grand figure of a man, under turban and swathed in flowing, loose-sleeved gown, a veritable patriarch, white-bearded and benign of countenance.
The newcomer, whose eyesight was evidently not of the best, for he judged the staring lads by their garb, spoke the familiar greeting in Arabic: “Peace be with you.”
Drawing nearer, though, and perceiving that the invaders were of another type than Turk, he astonished the boys by speaking in perfectly good English.
“How came you to Damascus?” was his first query.
“Damascus!” exclaimed Henri. “Is this Damascus?”
“So; and the oldest city in the world,” gravely replied the patriarch.
“Where the swords come from!”