Lost trumpet

THE LOST TRUMPET
1*5
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I had pulled her aside, barely in the nick of time,
as the three figures, fighting and clawing, rolled out
of the doorway near which we stood, hit the street
with considerable impact, and in the gutter con¬
tinued the dispute with unabated vigour. Pelagueya
I pushed away and made for the combative trio as I
saw the flash of a knife. The point of my shoe and a
wrist came in sharp contact. A yell rent the air of
the Wagh el Berka. Encouraged, I applied the shoe
again, to call forth similar appreciation. The trium¬
virate split apart, Crassus, an old woman, cat¬
spitting and half-clad, her grey hair in a tangle about
her face, bolted back into the doorway of the house ;
Pompey, fat, a bloated Egyptian in a fez, abandoned
armaments and followed his fellow-triumvir pre¬
cipitately. Was left Caesar, sitting upright, touching
the side of his head with tentative fingers.
“B’God, it’s still whole !”
“What is ?” I inquired, staring at him half-
rememberingly.
“My skull, you fool.” He stood up, swayingly,
and set to beat from his clothes a cloud of dust.
Pelagueya I found by my side. I suddenly recognized
the evicted triumvir. It was the young man who
had informed Huebsch, Marrot and myself on the
authentic character of Solomon that night at Simon’s.
“I see,” I said, “that you have been emulating the
good Solomon.”
“Eh ?” He stood upright. He reeked of brandy.