“Rather appeals!” Jim echoed. “Oh! the blasé youth of this generation! I should cheer for an hour without stopping if my honoured parent could be induced to get out of touch with Wall Street for a week-end!” “In brief,” Barry pursued patiently, “the idea that I am trying to drive into your thick skull is this: I am going to Egypt, and I am going next week.” “This is dreadful,” Jim declared. “Think of the broken hearts in New York. Besides, what about the Princess?” “It is about the Princess,” Barry returned, “that I want to speak to you. Several people, yourself included, have tried to convince me that I’m suffering from a delusion where this girl is concerned. But I am just as certain as ever that I have seen her, definitely twice, possibly three times. What I want to ask you is this: Once in a while, when you are in that neighbourhood, see if you can find anything out.” “You mean,” Jim suggested, “drop in on Mr. Brown and say that I have called about the electric light, or the installment due on the Ford, or something of that kind?” “Something of that kind,” Barry agreed. “Do it your own way--but just keep a sharp lookout. And if you should pick up any information, send me a cable. I can’t give you the route. When we get to some place up the Nile where we are going to camp, I shall have to let you know.” “Consider it done,” said Jim. “And now, _I_ have a request to make. Bring me back a large bottle filled with the sand of the unchanging desert. By sprinkling this in my bathroom and walking about in bare feet, I shall be able to imagine that I am a son of the mysterious East. Ho, there! Fatima, my dark-eyed ship of the desert!” “The expression ‘ship of the desert,’” Barry interrupted, “usually refers to a camel!” “I am talking about a camel,” Jim assured him. “The affection of the Arab for his camel is an historical fact.” “You are thinking about his horse!” “I am not thinking about his horse!” Jim cried. “The Arab I am talking about _has_ no horse, he has a camel.” And now: “What’s the row?” demanded a deep voice. Aunt Micky intruded, carrying a large hatbox. “Hello! Micky!” Barry exclaimed. “Been shopping again?” “Yes,” was the reply; “it has just arrived. The best that Dobbs could do for me.” Opening the box, she produced a sun helmet of dazzling white, decorated with a puggaree band in silver, violet, and maroon. “Great shakes!” Jim exclaimed. “Is this for Barry?” “It is,” Aunt Micky returned firmly. “It is most important that he should not expose his skull to the rays of the sun. John always wears a helmet in the East.” “I know he does,” Barry admitted ruefully, contemplating this “creation,” “but the one he wears is a decent sort of putty shade--and without ribbons. However! Is it the right size?” He tried it on.