LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER I

       “See here, Jim, you quit the British army!”

       Table of Contents

      D’you remember Mark Twain’s advice to read the Bible? It’s good. There’s one verse in particular in Genesis that quotes old Israel’s dying words.

      He says to his son Joseph—

      “Deal kindly and truly with me; bury me not, I pray thee, in Egypt.”

      To my mind that sums up Egypt perfectly.

      No sensible man can blame the Israelites for wanting to get away. It charms you for a while, but leaves you wondering why; and there’s a sting in all of Egypt’s favors just as surely as there’s a scorpion or an adder underneath the first stone you turn, and a hidden trick in every bargain.

      Like old Israel, I’d rather my carcass were disposed of almost anyhow than buried in Egypt’s finest mausoleum. But it isn’t bad fun all the same to sit on the big front veranda of Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo and watch the world go by. Sooner or later all trails cross at Cairo. It’s a sort of adventurers’ Clapham Junction.

      James Schuyler Grim, Jeremy Ross, and Narayan Singh were with me in 1920, and Cairo was complaining bitterly that she hadn’t a tourist to rob. All of us except Narayan Singh sat at a little table in the corner of Shepheard’s Hotel veranda, with Jeremy bubbling jokes at intervals and none of us knowing what would happen next.

      My friend Narayan Singh had borrowed a five-pound note from me and broken his rule of only getting drunk once in three months. His periodical debauch wasn’t due for six or eight weeks—which was why I had dared to lend him money—but we had found his bedroom empty that morning of everything except an equally empty whisky bottle. He had even put the furniture out of the window, possessed by some distorted notion of getting even with the world for old wrongs, and we neither knew what had become of him, nor dared inquire.

      He might be standing stark naked on top of the Pyramid, delivering a lecture on Swadeshi to the kites. Or he might be trying to invade a harem, proclaiming himself the deliverer of lost princesses. Basing conjecture solely on past occurrences, he was possibly at that minute storming the house of the High Commissioner, flourishing sheets of scribbled paper, wearing no trousers; and demanding to be washed in wine. He was certainly being bold, probably prayerful, and perhaps using scandalous language; but subject to those provisos there was no limit to what he might be doing.

      The one sure thing was that we were his friends and would hear of it, if he should fall foul of the authorities. And the one best bet was not to call official attention to ourselves or him meanwhile. We weren’t going to leave Narayan Singh in the lurch, for he was a man and a brother who had risked his neck with us; but we should have been idiots to go about asking for him at the moment. So we sat still and refused to worry, while Jeremy exploded jokes until he suddenly grew deadly serious and turned his fire on Grim.

      “See here, Jim,” he said, tossing his head to get the chestnut hair out of his eyes. “You quit the British Army!”

      “Why?” demanded Grim, looking calmly at him, unastonished.

      You never are astonished at anything Jeremy says or does, once you’ve known him for a few days.

      “I’ll tell you why. I know the British Army. They’ll serve you the same they served us Anzacs every time after a war was won—kick you and tell you to go to Hell. Got any money? No! Got a profession? No! Can you write signs—shear sheep—shave lumbermen—sell canned goods—cook for a fourpenny buster outfit? Those are the chaps who don’t have to worry when the job slips out from under them. Can you splice wire rope, or ballyhoo the greenhorns outside a one-ring circus in a bush town? No! And you’ll starve, when the British Army’s through with you! There you sit, waiting for a red-necked swab with gold lace on his collar and the rim of a monocle eating the skin of his nose to tell you you’re fired!”

      Grim laughed.

      “D’you think it’s as bad as that, Jeremy?”

      “It’s worse! I’ve seen your sort—sacked from the army to cover a bad break made by some sore-bags in an armchair. They come to Australia in shoals. Sydney and Melbourne are lousy with them. Most of ‘em would suicide if they weren’t too proud to steal a gun. They end by joining the Salvation Army and calling with a can from house to house for swill and spud-peel! You grin—good lord! With that in front of you!”

      “Don’t you think I could land a job out here as interpreter or something?” Grim suggested pleasantly.

      “You’ve a better chance of a contract to serve ice-cream in Hell! You one- track Yankee visionary! You’re so dead set on cleaning up Arabia that you can’t see daylight for the dust you’ve made. For the love of luck,

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