Dicky knew now that the beginning of the end had come for Norman. There were only two things to do: get him away shooting somewhere, or humour him here. But there was no chance for shooting till things got very much better. The authorities in Cairo would never understand, and the babbling social-military folk would say that they had calmly gone shooting while pretending to stay the cholera epidemic. It wouldn’t be possible to explain that Norman was in a bad way, and that it was done to give him half a chance of life. Fielding also ought to have a few days clear away from this constant pressure and fighting, and the sounds and the smells of death; but it could not be yet. Therefore, to humour them both was the only thing, and Norman’s was the worse case. After all, they had got a system of sanitary supervision, they had the disease by the throat, and even in Cairo the administration was waking up a little. The crisis would soon pass perhaps, if a riot could be stayed and the natives give up their awful fictions of yellow handkerchiefs, poisoned sweetmeats, deadly limewash, and all such nonsense. So Dicky said now, “All right, Norman; come along. You’ll seize that fessikh, and I’ll bring back Mustapha Kali. We’ll work him as he has never worked in his life. He’ll be a living object-lesson. We’ll have all Upper Egypt on the banks of the Nile waiting to see what happens to Mustapha.” Dicky laughed, and Fielding responded feebly; but Norman was looking at the hospital with a look too bright for joy, too intense for despair. “I found ten in a corner of a cane-field yesterday,” he said dreamily. “Four were dead, and the others had taken the dead men’s smocks as covering.” He shuddered. “I see nothing but limewash, smell nothing but carbolic. It’s got into my head. Look here, old man, I can’t stand it. I’m no use,” he added pathetically to Fielding. “You’re right enough, if you’ll not take yourself so seriously,” said Dicky jauntily. “You mustn’t try to say, ‘Alone I did it.’ Come along. Fill your tobacco-pouch. There are the horses. I’m ready.” He turned to Fielding. “It’s going to be a stiff ride, Fielding. But I’ll do it in twenty-four hours, and bring Mustapha Kali too--for a consideration.” He paused, and Fielding said, with an attempt at playfulness: “Name your price.” “That you play for me, when I get back, the overture of ‘Tannhauser’. Play it, mind; no tuning-up sort of thing, like last Sunday’s performance. Practise it, my son! Is it a bargain? I’m not going to work for nothing a day.”