FullReads

“With twenty ghaffirs I beat five cane and dourha fields this morning,” said Dicky. “Found three cases. They’d been taken out of the village during the night.”

“Bad ones?”

“So so. They’ll be worse before they’re better. That was my morning’s flutter. This afternoon I found the huts these gentlemen call their homes. I knocked holes in the roofs per usual, burnt everything that wasn’t wood, let in the light o’ heaven, and splashed about limewash and perchloride. That’s my day’s tot-up. Any particular trouble?” he added, eyeing Fielding closely.

Fielding fretfully jerked his foot on the floor, and lighted his pipe, the first that day.

“Heaps. I’ve put the barber in prison, and given the sarraf twenty lashes for certifying that the death of the son of the Mamour was el aadah–the ordinary. It was one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. He fell ill at ten and was dead at two, the permis d’inhumation was given at four, and the usual thing occurred: the bodywashers got the bedding and clothing, and the others the coverlet. God only knows who’ll wear that clothing, who’ll sleep in that bed!”

“If the Lord would only send them sense, we’d supply sublimate solution–douche and spray, and zinc for their little long boxes of bones,” mused Dicky, his eyes half shut, as he turned over in his hands some scarabs a place-hunting official had brought him that day. “Well, that isn’t all?” he added, with a quick upward glance and a quizzical smile. His eyes, however, as they fell on Fielding’s, softened in a peculiar way, and a troubled look flashed through them; for Fielding’s face was drawn and cold, though the eyes were feverish, and a bright spot burned on his high cheek-bones.

“No, it isn’t all, Dicky. The devil’s in the whole business. Steady, sullen opposition meets us at every hand. Norman’s been here–rode over from Abdallah–twenty-five miles. A report’s going through the native villages, started at Abdallah, that our sanitary agents are throwing yellow handkerchiefs in the faces of those they’re going to isolate.”

“That’s Hoskai Bey’s yellow handkerchief. He’s a good man, but he blows his nose too much, and blows it with a flourish…. Has Norman gone back?”

“No, I’ve made him lie down in my cabin. He says he can’t sleep, says he can only work. He looks ten years older. Abdallah’s an awful place, and it’s a heavy district. The Mamour there’s a scoundrel. He has influenced the whole district against Norman and our men. Norman–you know what an Alexander-Hannibal baby it is, all the head of him good for the best sort of work anywhere, all the fat heart of him dripping sentiment–gave a youngster a comfit the other day. By some infernal accident the child fell ill two days afterwards–it had been sucking its father’s old shoe–and Norman just saved its life by the skin of his teeth. If the child had died, there’d have been a riot probably. As it is, there’s talk that we’re scattering poisoned sweetmeats to spread the disease. He’s done a plucky thing, though….” He paused. Dicky looked up inquiringly, and Fielding continued. “There’s a fellow called Mustapha Kali, a hanger-on of the Mudir of the province. He spread a report that this business was only a scare got up by us; that we poisoned the people and buried them alive. What does Norman do? He promptly arrests him, takes him to the Mudir, and says that the brute must be punished or he’ll carry the matter to the Khedive.”

“Here’s to you, Mr. Norman!” said Dicky, with a little laugh. “What does the Mudir do?”

“Doesn’t know what to do. He tells Norman to say to me that if he puts the fellow in prison there’ll be a riot, for they’ll make a martyr of him. If he fines him it won’t improve matters. So he asks me to name a punishment which’ll suit our case. He promises to give it ‘his most distinguished consideration.'”