"You very Inglees—you smokit pipe, your boots, your walk. I plenty savvy," he said, tapping his head. "I no seely Turk. Me Syrian."
"What the devil are you doing here?"
"They maket me fight. I no' wants fight. Me Christian. I likes Inglees."
"But what are you following me for?"
"Well—monees—backsheesh. Me poor man."
"How did you spot me?"
"You droppit this when you down there," said the Syrian, pulling an identity disc out of his pocket. This was stamped, "Lieut. Tony Brown, New Zealand Dragoons." The subaltern paled as he looked at this damning proof. He must have dropped it when fumbling with his pockets in the camp below.
He inwardly cursed his stupidity.
"Have a cigarette?" said he, offering a Virginian to his new-found friend.
"Oh, wery nice—wery Inglees too," said the Syrian, looking at the inscription: "Three Castles. W. D. & H. O. Wills." "No maket these in Stamboul—eh?"