Falcontent leaned forward in disreputable anger. “You mean to tell me,” he flared, his voice risen, “that the Lord took him—deliberately? That the Lord put that poor little fellow through weeks of useless agony—and then killed him?”
“Hush!”
Falcontent would not be quieted. His eyes were flushed with rage; his nostrils flared; his teeth were bared. “You call that Design?” he cried. “Design—hell! That was Chance. There is no God!”
Ha! Was it so? Awad needed nothing more. It was an old problem. He gripped Falcontent’s forearm to restrain him. “Sh-h!” he commanded. “It is too loud for be polite. You have shame yourself. An’ me—your dragoman!” Falcontent’s resentment failed. He had not the strength to sustain rage: he was able only to continue in sulky rebellion. He was listless now once more; he stared vacantly upon the scornful comment his outburst—though in English—had aroused. “Listen!” the dragoman went on, his voice low, his words clear-cut, his way authoritative. “You go the Holy Land by present intention. I know that much. It is for the cure. Some friend say, ‘Go an’ be heal’.’ I understan’. Many peoples—many, oh many, many peoples—come the Holy Land to be cure of sorrow. Ver’ commonplace to happen. But mos’ dangerous practice. I have see’ cure; I have also see’ ruin. Now I am deep student of ver’ mos’ new an’ modern theology. Ver’ good. I prescribe. Privilege granted? Listen! We go to Jerusalem. True; but by way of Mount Sinai. By way of Suez, the Monastery of St. Catherine, Akaba, Ell Ma’an, Petra, I make no bones, sir. It is a long desert journey:—ver’ harsh journey includin’ dangers proceedin’ from robbers’ habitations. But mos’ excellent health is thereby to be gain’. Ver’ good. Quite satisfy? I prepare, then, my outfit of men an’ animals at once.... Mm-m?”
It was an appealing suggestion. Falcontent was moved to carry his sorrow to an exceeding desolation. And he was sensible, too, of the physical advantage. There was surely bodily cure—the cure of physical folly—to be found on the caravan route.
“That listens all right, George,” said he. “But what do you get out of this?”
“Surely,” the dragoman replied, with a shrug, “I have honor to arrange contract with reasonable profit devolving upon me ... Expense, as it were, Mr. Falcontent—no object? Mm-m? Doubtless not?”
“Oh, anything reasonable, George,” said Falcontent. “But I don’t want to be stung.”
“Ver’ reasonable, Mr. Falcontent. No sting in contract of Mr. Amos Awad. I do so assure you upon honor.”
Falcontent came to a quick decision. “All right, George,” said he, with spirit. “I’ll go. And we’ll get to work and arrange the terms of that little contract right now.”