He refused the crisp, well-browned roll at first, then, thinking it only kind to reward the man for his devotion, bit off an end and finished the lot.
“Topping, Abdul! I’ll have one every day. What’s it made of?”
Abdul hid his hands in his sleeves as he lied with the ease which comes from long practice.
“Little bits of meat and fat and vegetables fried in butter, Excellency. The servant is rewarded by the light of pleasure in his master’s eye.”
Ralph Trenchard rose and shook himself.
“We’d better be starting, Abdul,” he said, flicking a locust from his sleeve. “The journey of a day and the journey of a night, that means the journey of two nights as we cannot travel in the sun, and then—and then I shall know, I shall be certain. And look here, my friend, don’t you go cooking any of these disgusting beasts and serving them up as fried dates or something.”
He plucked one of the disgusting beasts from his shirt sleeve and flung it away, then looked at his servant, who stood motionless, a cloud of despondency dimming the habitually merry countenance.
“Well? And what’s the matter now? Have the camels stampeded or the water-skins burst?”
Abdul suddenly knelt and touched the ground with his forehead.
“Give ear unto thy servant, O master! Hasten not the journey, linger yet one more night and yet one more day. The omens are not propitious for the starting. We are surrounded by death, by the bones of our brethren. The east blows the wind from her mouth and from the north comes a puff of breath, so that the wind will blow slantwise towards the west and the south.”