Lost trumpet

the lost TRUMPET 223
all like that, and it frets us at times, and we want to
pack and clear out and go blundering off somewhere
else. D’you know. I’ve felt like that in some of the
times that have been the best in my life—in that
Jericho discovery, f’r instance. And what more than
that could an archaeologist want ? . . . And it
seemed to me it was nothing at all and I’d never any
real interest in it. . . . Or Marrot either—Marrot,
the best man out East. But what else can we do
except forget and get down to the work in
hand ?
“Nothing else,” I assented. “Yours is the voice
of sanity, Mr. Huebsch. I think I wanted to act the
deserter. But there is no desertion from that unease.
I will resume with my gang.”
“Well say, take a day off. We’ll want our
permits restamped at the Ministry in a day or so
anyway. Take them in and have them restamped
now. You needn’t associate with the writer boy
unless you want to.” He indicated the waiting
tender below and the slim, slouching figure of the
novelist. “Riding the rum-wagon pretty fast, I
guess. . . Wonder what Jew he once fell foul’ of
—and can’t forgive me because of it ?”
I also had wondered that. Huebsch waved his
hand, called a last injunction about the permits, and
strode away Marrotwards. I changed my jacket,
went to the store-tent, secured the permits, and
walked to where the tender stood. Kalaun was at
the wheel, Quaritch already aboard.
“Ready, khawaga ?”