The Times Red Cross Story Book by Famous Novelists Serving in His Majesty's Forces. Various

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ will take a photograph of that gate to-morrow,” said Arden.

III

       Table of Contents

      The next morning Dimoussi came out of the Fondak Henna and walked to the little booth in the Sôk Kubba. Mustapha was squatting upon the floor, and with a throbbing heart Dimoussi noticed the familiar pistol shining against the dark wall behind. It had not been sold.

      “Give it to me,” he said.

      Mustapha took the pistol from the nail on which it hung.

      “It is worth fourteen dollars,” said he. “But, see, to every man his chance comes. I am in a good mind to-day. My health is excellent and my heart is light. You shall have it for twelve.”

      Dimoussi took the pistol in his hand. It had a flint lock and was mounted in polished brass, and a cover of brass was on the heel of the butt.

      “It is not worth twelve. I will give you seven for it.”

      Mustapha raised his hands in a gesture of indignation.

      “Seven dollars!” he cried in a shrill, angry voice. “Hear him! Seven dollars! Look, it comes from Agadhir in the Sus country where they make the best weapons.”

      He pointed out to Dimoussi certain letters upon the plate underneath the lock. “There it is written.”

      Dimoussi could not read, but he nodded his head sagely.

      “Yes. It is worth seven,” said he.

      The shopman snatched it away from the boy.

      “I will not be angry, for it is natural to boys to be foolish. But I will tell you the truth. I gave eight dollars for it after much bargaining. But it has hung in my shop for a year, and no one any more has money. Therefore, I will sell it to you for ten.”

      He felt behind his back and showed Dimoussi a tantalising glint of the brass barrel. Dimoussi was unshaken.

      “It has hung in your shop for four months,” said he.

      “A year. That is why I will sell it to you at the loss of a dollar.”

      “Liar, and son of a liar,” replied the boy, without any heat, “and grandson of a liar. I sold it to you for five dollars four months ago. I will give you eight for it to-day.”

      He counted out the eight dollars one by one on the raised floor of the booth, and the shopman could not resist.

      “Very well,” he cried furiously. “Take it, and may your children starve as mine surely will!”

      “You are a pig, and the son of a pig,” replied Dimoussi calmly. “Have you any powder?”

      He changed his ninth dollar and bought some powder.

      “You will need bullets, too,” said Mustapha. “I will sell you them very cheap. Oh, you are lucky! Do you see those signs upon the barrel? The pistol is charmed and cannot miss.”

      Dimoussi looked at the signs engraved one above the other on the barrel. There was a crown, and a strange letter, and a lion. He had long wondered what those signs meant. He was very glad now that he understood.

      “But I will not buy lead bullets,” said Dimoussi wisely. “The pistol may be enchanted so that it cannot miss, but there are also enchantments against lead bullets so that they cannot hurt.”

      So Dimoussi walked away, and begged a lump of rock salt from another booth instead. He cut down the lump until it fitted roughly into the hexagonal barrel of his pistol. Then he loaded the pistol, and hiding the weapon in the wide sleeve of his jellaba, sauntered to the great square before the Renegade’s Gate. There were groups of people standing about watching the tents, and the inevitable ring of sentries. But while Dimoussi was still loitering—he would have loitered for a fortnight if need be, for there were no limits to Dimoussi’s patience—Arden came out of the tent with his camera, and Challoner followed with a tripod stand.

      The two consools passed the line of guards and set up the camera in front of the Renegade’s Gate. Dimoussi was quite impartial which of the two should be sacrificed to begin the djehad, but again an ironical fate laid its hand upon him. It was Arden who was to work the camera. It was Arden, therefore, who was surrounded by the idlers, and was safe. Challoner, on the other hand, had to stand quite apart, so as to screen the lens from the direct rays of the sun.

      “A little more to the right, Challoner,” said Arden. “That’ll do.”

      He put his head under the focussing cloth, and the next instant he heard a loud report, followed by shouts and screams and the rush of feet; and when he tore the focussing cloth away he saw Challoner lying upon the ground, the sentries agitatedly rushing this way and that, and the bystanders to a man in full flight.

      Dimoussi had chosen his opportunity well. He stood between two men, and rather behind them, and exactly opposite Challoner. All eyes were fixed upon the camera, even Challoner’s. It was true that he did see the sun glitter suddenly upon something bright, that he did turn, that he did realise that the bright thing was the brass barrel of a big flintlock pistol. But before he could move or shout, the pistol was fired, and a heavy blow like a blow from a cudgel struck him full on the chest.

      Challoner spoke no more than a few words afterwards. The lump of rock salt had done the work of an explosive bullet. He was just able to answer a question of Arden’s.

      “Did you see who fired?”

      “The boy who came from Mulai Idris,” whispered Challoner. “He shot me with a brass-barrelled pistol.” That seemed to have made a most vivid impression upon his mind, for more than once he repeated it.

      But Dimoussi was by this time out of the Renegade’s Gate, and running with all his might through the olive grove towards the open, lawless country south of Mequinez. By the evening he was safe from capture, and lifted up with pride.

      Certainly no djehad had followed upon the murder, and that was disappointing. But it was not Dimoussi’s fault. He had done his best according to his lights. Meanwhile, it seemed prudent to him to settle down quietly at Agurai. He was nearly sixteen now. Dimoussi thought that he would settle down and marry.

      Here the episode would have ended but for two circumstances. In the first place Dimoussi carried back with him from Mequinez the brass-barrelled pistol; and in the second place Arden, two years later, acted upon a long-cherished desire to penetrate the unmapped country south of Mequinez.

      He travelled with a mule as a Jew pedlar, knowing that such a man, for the sake of his wares, may go where a Moor may not. Of his troubles during his six months’ wanderings now is not the time to speak. It is enough that at the end of the six months he set up his canvas shelter one evening by the village of Agurai.

      The men came at once and squatted, chattering, about his shelter.

      “Is there a woman in the village,” asked Arden, “who will wash some clothes for me?”

      And СКАЧАТЬ