Landing was made near a spring of boiling hot water, something not before of record in Henri’s notebook.
“If the janitor of my uncle’s apartment house in Boston had this to tap for the kicking tenants, I believe the hump in his shoulders would lose its curve in a week.”
Billy had tested the product of the boiling spring with a finger tip, and promptly poked the scalded member into his mouth for cooling.
“It wouldn’t be a marker to the way my Aunt Melissa would go on,” remarked Canby, “if she knew her wayward nephew was really in the ‘land flowing in milk and honey.’ Even if the ‘flow’ isn’t showing much yet to me, that good old soul has it fixed in her mind. It wasn’t so far from here, I guess, that King David looked one way at Philistine enemies and the other at Moabite foes.”
“Suppose we may as well camp here for the night,” said Henri, “though it strikes me that I’d rather be where the sea would sing me to sleep.”
“No dark night flying for me this trip. I don’t want to smash any mountains by running into them.”
Billy had concluded that the sand was soft enough for a good bed, and there was another spring near, in decided contrast to the hot one.
“We can be in Jerusalem in almost no time now, and a little further on the fighting game begins again. Why hurry? There’ll be plenty of powder left when we get to Egypt.”
“You ought to have said that before we shook the pleasant berth up at Damascus, Billy,” insisted Henri.
“But, you know, Macauley and Canby wouldn’t have consented to keeping that far away from the cannon’s mouth. They know now that the jumping-off place is close enough to reach in a day or two, and, maybe, they’ll stand hitched for a little while.”