The men of the train watched in anxious silence. Buckhart heard the words of the Syrians, and immediately he plunged a hand into a pocket where his revolver lay. “There you have it, Dick!” he half snarled. “Now you know what’s coming! Ready for business!” Merriwell made a calm, restraining gesture. “Steady, old man,” he flung over his shoulder. “Let’s talk to Ali Beha and find out what he’s going to do. That is the best plan. Then possibly we’ll raise an objection. Better not be too hasty.” Experience and the example of his brother Frank had taught Dick to keep his head in times of peril. As usual, Buckhart was ready to fight. For all of the apparent peril, he was undaunted. Beyond question, he was rash and reckless; but to his credit it must be said that he was ready to surrender his life in defense of his rights and his friend. There was not one drop of cowardly blood in Brad’s body. If, on account of his assumed bluster and swagger, any one took him for a chap who would show the white feather in a pinch, that person was certain to be surprised and quite upset. At school a few of the boys had fancied the Texan to be a bluffer, but when they had attempted to “call him,” he had given them, one and all, a setback by “making good.” Physical injury in a fist fight had never daunted him, and now, in the face of possible death, he was just as nervy and indifferent to the result. Once on a time Dick Merriwell had been impulsive, reckless and thoughtless, but he had learned to govern himself and to consider the consequences of any act. This had changed him greatly. Not that he had lost a whit of courage, but courage is not mere reckless thoughtlessness. The really brave man is the one who considers the consequences, realizes the full extent of the peril, and then calmly faces it. It is possible that association with Brad, whom he often found it necessary to restrain, had tended to make Dick more conservative and careful, for he realized that two reckless persons who spur each other on are certain to commit many follies. So Merriwell warned his chum against haste and then turned to the chief of the Bedouins to talk the matter over. “You have called for me,” he said. “I am here. What do you want?” Ali Beha was still surveying the calm, clear-eyed American lad with deep interest. He took his time about answering Dick’s question. “Thou art very young,” he finally observed. “Which is not an answer to my question,” retorted Dick. “Thou art a mere boy.” The Bedouin seemed disappointed. “Acknowledged,” nodded Dick. “What does Ali Beha want of a mere boy and a stranger in this land?” “Thou hast friends near?” “Two of them are with me.” “But there are others?” “Possibly.” “They assisted thee in leaving Damascus?” “Yes.” “But they are not with thee now?” “Do you come from them?” asked Dick quickly. “It is even so,” declared the chief. “Thy friend sent me.” “You mean—— Name him!”