In the
Arabian Nights was there not always a scheming sultan or a baffled
wazir, in every clash with the folk of the land? Was it unnatural that
Najib should have substituted for these the mythical general of whom he
thought he had seen mention in the news headline?
But, soon after dusk, Kirby had reason to know that his words had not
all fallen on barren soil. At close of the working day, Najib had
brought the manager the usual diurnal report from the mine. Now, after
supper, Kirby, glancing over the report again, found a gap of terse yet
complete reports. And occasionally Kirby was obliged to summon his
henchman to correct or amend the day's tally sheet.
Wherefore, the list in his hand, the American strolled down from his own
knoll-top tent toward Najib's quarters. As Najib was superintendent, and
thus technically an official, Kirby could make such domiciliary visits
without loss of prestige, instead of summoning the Syrian to his
presence by handclap of by messenger, as would have been necessary in
dealing with any of the other employees.
Najib's hut lay a hundred yards beyond the hollow where the fellaheen
and soldiers were encamped. For Najib, too, had a dignity to uphold. He
might no more lodge or break bread with his underlings than might Kirby
with him. Yet, at times, preparatory to pattering up the knoll for his
wonted evening chat with the American at the latter's campfire, Najib
would so far unbend as to pause at the fellaheen's camp for a native
discussion of many gestures and much loud talking.
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