XXX
When they came to their tents he went into hers, slung her hammock properly, shook a scorpion out of her slippers, and set his heel on it; drove a non-poisonous but noisy puff-adder from under her foot-rug, the creature hissing like a boiling kettle and distending its grey and black neck.
Terrified but outwardly calm, she stood beside him, now clutching his arm very closely; and at last her tent was in order, the last spider and lizard hustled out, the oil cook-stove burning, the tinned goods ready, the aluminum batterie-de-cuisine ranged at her elbow.
"I wonder," he said, hesitating, "whether I[305] dare leave you long enough to go and dig some holes with a crow-bar."
"Why, of course!" she said. "You can't have me tagging at your heels every minute, you know."
He laughed: "It's I who do the tagging."
"It isn't disagreeable," she said shyly.
"I don't mean to dog every step you take," he continued, "but now, when you are out of my sight, I—I can't help feeling a trifle anxious."