"What is the matter?" I inquired.
"At—the horse!" said Mohammed.
"Yes, sir," said Radford, who had accompanied him, and had acquired the habit of sometimes interlarding his English with a few words of Turkish; "the At has a hawful sore back, and all the 'air is off it."
"Which horse?"
"The old pack-horse, the roarer."
Mohammed shook his head mournfully.
"We had better sell him," he said. "One of the Zaptiehs has a mule; he is not a big mule, but he is a nice animal, sleek and comely, besides being strong. The man says that if the Effendi will give him five liras and the horse which makes a noise, that we may have his mule."
The animal in question was a brute which the gendarme rode, and which was always trying to run away. I had previously gathered from the fellow that his mule had escaped three times whilst he was being saddled. However, the gendarme had forgotten that he had told me of this, and in all probability had offered Mohammed a share of the five liras, should I be fool enough to accept the proposal.
"Let me see the pack-saddle!" I exclaimed.
On looking at it I found that by cutting out a considerable portion of the lining, it would be possible to prevent any weight pressing upon the horse's sore place.