Lost trumpet

222
THE LOST TRUMPET
a bull-god of the Semites, slowly levered himself
round again. “Of course you understand that Marrot
and I will sue you ?”
“Eh ?” I had not understood that at all.
“Why, sure. You’ve broken your contract and
landed us in a fix, and we’ve no other course. Well,
bye-bye, Colonel.”
I shrugged aside his proffered hand and kicked
my suit-case under the string-bed. I looked at him.
Something rippled about the lines of his massive
lips. I watched it, fascinated, comber to cheek and
chin. His jaw fell, his head jerked back. He laughed,
boomingly, like the salute of an ancient cannon.
There was nothing for me but to join in the laugh,
so thunderous and naive and pleased it was.
“Say, think we’re going to have you leave us
because you got out of bed grumpy this morning ?”
He shook the egg-shaped head in immense negation.
Then peered at me, a fatherly Baal. The camp was
already astir, Marrot striding down towards the
new excavations, Georgios singing at his work—an
improper song in the Chian dialect. From the west
there drifted a ghostly thing, extinguished in a
moment, the damp smell of the morning crops.
. . . It had grown to be home, this camp, I under¬
stood without amazement. Gault’s crouched there
in the sunrise. I should hate to leave before the
search was over. . . . Huebsch talking to me,
slowly and justly.
“. . . that talk of yours last night—never having
known the real Saloney. Well, well, I guess we’re