"I can feel all the three places in my throat where he ran the knife in," said he. "And--don't you notice?--I speak with difficulty." So we sat up together the rest of the night. He became more reasonable as dawn came on, and inclined to admit that he had been a prey to fancies. The day passed very much as did others--Jameson was dull and sulky. After déjeuner he sat on at table when the ladies had risen and retired, and the gentlemen had formed in knots at the window, discussing what was to be done in the afternoon. Suddenly Jameson, whose head had begun to nod, started up with an oath and threw down his chair. "You fellows!" he said, "you are all in league against me. You let that Mustapha come in without a word, and try to stick his knife into me." [Illustration: "YOU LET THAT MUSTAPHA COME IN, AND TRY AND STICK HIS KNIFE INTO ME."] "He has not been here." "It's a plant. You are combined to bully me and drive me away. You don't like me. You have engaged Mustapha to murder me. This is the fourth time he has tried to cut my throat, and in the _salle à manger_, too, with you all standing round. You ought to be ashamed to call yourselves Englishmen. I'll go to Cairo. I'll complain." It really seemed that the feeble brain of Jameson was affected. The Oxford don undertook to sit up in the room the following night. The young man was fagged and sleep-weary, but no sooner did his eyes close, and clouds form about his head, than he was brought to wakefulness again by the same fancy or dream. The Oxford don had more trouble with him on the second night than I had on the first, for his lapses into sleep were more frequent, and each such lapse was succeeded by a start and a panic. The next day he was worse, and we felt that he could no longer be left alone. The third night the attaché sat up to watch him. Jameson had now sunk into a sullen mood. He would not speak, except to himself, and then only to grumble. During the night, without being aware of it, the young attaché, who had taken a couple of magazines with him to read, fell asleep. When he went off he did not know. He woke just before dawn, and in a spasm of terror and self-reproach saw that Jameson's chair was empty. Jameson was not on his bed. He could not be found in the hotel. At dawn he was found--dead, at the door of the mosque, with his throat cut. LITTLE JOE GANDER "There's no good in him," said his stepmother, "not a mossul!" With these words she thrust little Joe forward by applying her knee to the small of his back, and thereby jerking him into the middle of the school before the master. "There's no making nothing out of him, whack him as you will."