George caught Dick’s arm and hurried him stumbling and tripping past a disgusted sentry who was used to stampeding camels.
“What’s the row now?” he cried.
“Every stitch of my kit on that blasted dromedary,” Dick answered, after the manner of a common soldier.
“Go on, and take care your throat’s not cut outside—you and your dromedary’s.”
The outcries ceased when the camel had disappeared behind a hillock, and his driver had called him back and made him kneel down.
“Mount first,” said Dick. Then climbing into the second seat and gently screwing the pistol muzzle into the small of his companion’s back, “Go on in God’s name, and swiftly. Good-bye, George. Remember me to Madame, and have a good time with your girl. Get forward, child of the Pit!”
A few minutes later he was shut up in a great silence, hardly broken by the creaking of the saddle and the soft pad of the tireless feet. Dick adjusted himself comfortably to the rock and pitch of the pace, girthed his belt tighter, and felt the darkness slide past. For an hour he was conscious only of the sense of rapid progress.
“A good camel,” he said at last.
“He was never underfed. He is my own and clean bred,” the driver replied.
“Go on.”