FullReads

“And give someone else the credit? No, thank you. This is my bird. But how are we going to get him to find his tongue?”

The Egyptian’s dark eyes skirted the encampment and rested on the cook’s fire. “Perhaps,” said he, “if the Bimbashi thought fit–” He looked at the prisoner and then at the burning wood.

“No, no; it wouldn’t do. No, by Jove, that’s going too far.”

“A very little might do it.”

“No, no. It’s all very well here, but it would sound just awful if ever it got as far as Fleet Street. But, I say,” he whispered, “we might frighten him a bit. There’s no harm in that.”

“No, sir.”

“Tell them to undo the man’s galabeeah. Order them to put a horseshoe in the fire and make it red-hot.” The prisoner watched the proceedings with an air which had more of amusement than of uneasiness. He never winced as the black sergeant approached with the glowing shoe held upon two bayonets.

“Will you speak now?” asked the Bimbashi, savagely. The prisoner smiled gently and stroked his beard.

“Oh, chuck the infernal thing away!” cried Joyce, jumping up in a passion. “There’s no use trying to bluff the fellow. He knows we won’t do it. But I can and I will flog him, and you can tell him from me that if he hasn’t found his tongue by to-morrow morning I’ll take the skin off his back as sure as my name’s Joyce. Have you said all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you can sleep upon it, you beauty, and a good night’s rest may it give you!” He adjourned the Court, and the prisoner, as imperturbable as ever, was led away by the guard to his supper of rice and water. Hilary Joyce was a kind-hearted man, and his own sleep was considerably disturbed by the prospect of the punishment which he must inflict next day. He had hopes that the mere sight of the koorbash and the thongs might prevail over his prisoner’s obstinacy. And then, again, he thought how shocking it would be if the man proved to be really dumb after all. The possibility shook him so that he had almost determined by daybreak that he would send the stranger on unhurt to Assouan. And yet what a tame conclusion it would be to the incident! He lay upon his angareeb still debating it when the question suddenly and effectively settled itself. Ali Mahomet rushed into his tent.

“Sir,” he cried, “the prisoner is gone!”

“Gone!”

“Yes, sir, and your own best riding camel as well. There is a slit cut in the tent, and he got away unseen in the early morning.”

The Bimbashi acted with all energy. Cavalry rode along every track; scouts examined the soft sand of the wadys for signs of the fugitive, but no trace was discovered. The man had utterly disappeared. With a heavy heart, Hilary Joyce wrote an official report of the matter and forwarded it to Assouan. Five days later there came a curt order from the chief that he should report himself there. He feared the worst from the stern soldier, who spared others as little as he spared himself. And his worst forebodings were realised. Travel-stained and weary, he reported himself one night at the general’s quarters. Behind a table piled with papers and strewn with maps the famous soldier and his Chief of Intelligence were deep in plans and figures. Their greeting was a cold one.

“I understand, Captain Joyce,” said the general, “that you have allowed a very important prisoner to slip through your fingers.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“No doubt. But that will not mend matters. Did you ascertain anything about him before you lost him?”

“No, sir.”

“How was that?”

“I could get nothing out of him, sir.”