Lost trumpet

THE LOST TRUMPET
3°
of the sun the true Cairene azure was now over¬
spread by a filament of heat-cloud. From the pipe of
Huebsch ascended now an impressive reek.
“Dr. Adrian will have told you something about
the expedition we’re planning, Colonel.”
“Not a thing,” cut in Adrian. Huebsch nodded.
“Well, well.” He turned his gaze, that was some¬
how vast, and smile, that was unbelievably slow,
upon me. Fascinated, I watched the patient convo¬
lutions ebb from his mouth across his countenance.
“Dr. Adrian’s still of two minds whether we’re
cranks or quacks.”
It was now Adrian’s turn to appraise the promise
of the weather. “I think you may be—a trifle over-
enthusiastic.”
Huebsch pondered this, heavily, but not dully;
as I was soon to note was his unvarying habit in
consideration of all things, great or small. “Well,
well, we may be. Anyway, Colonel, we want to
engage you as our guide and general direction-
finder-in-chief in a little archaeological mission that
has brought us to Cairo.”
I made speedy disclaimer. “I am no archaeologist.”
That’s one of the points in your favour.”
“So ?”
The great ovoid head swung forward slowly;
regained its customary elevation. “Yes. And now
we 11 cut the box-string and chew on the cake. If
you’ll have us, we’ll have you. That so, Marrot ?”
The sky-gazing communist lowered his head to
nod assent. “But hell—a colonel!”