Verbeena smiled and started another cigarette. She went over to the camel, rubbed its clever nose, brought out her gold-lined case and fed the camel a ciggy too. Then she turned toward her brother--turned with boyish abandon and hauteur, of course--and spoke. Speaking she said: "That will be about all from you, Tawd. Pack your gat." Montrose, her brother's valet, an unexpectedly, entirely unusual perfect servant, came along the Sahara bearing two plates of soup. It was the appointed dining hour for Lord Tawdry. Regardless of what he might do as to debts, he insisted on prompt feeding. "Drop that soup," said Verbeena sternly. "Your master isn't staying to dinner and the soup will not stain the sand. "Instead, Montrose," continued Verbeena, "get out the fine comb, for this day finds your master with more sand than soup in his hanging gardens. "Afterwards tie his shoes and put on his sunbonnet for Lord Tawdry is going day-day." "Yes, miss, thank you, miss." "Back to the Biscuit, you understand, Montrose." "Yes, miss; thank God, miss." "Verbeena!" Again Lord Tawdry clutched his pistol. "Aw-blooey," said Verbeena. "As long as you aim it at men I don't in the least mind. To horse, Lord Tawdry! This is my camp and you just keep out of it, do you hear?" As her brother rode dejectedly away, his long, black mustaches of Spanish moss effect mingling with the turf on his charger's ginger-colored hump, Verbeena lit a bunch of cigarettes in his honor and let go a devilish wink at Musty Ale. Musty's palms went up toward the heavens. "O, Allah, witness," he chanted, his chin also pointing at the azure African sky, "be she, he or it--SOME kid!" CHAPTER III When the last floating ends of Lord Tawdry's face-banners had disappeared over the horizon, Musty Ale made bold to appear before Verbeena, who with eyes crossed was dipping deeply into a highball of Scotch which tended to denature the Sahara. "Mademoiselle, it is time that we left, by Allah," he said. "It isn't by my watch," she replied, frowning. "Also, Musty, I am no longer to be called mademoiselle. After this mention me as Queen." "Sultana?" "I don't like that fruit-cracker word either, my good man. _Queen!_ And don't forget it. And don't look cross at me in your mysterious Oriental way. You might as well get used to it. Perhaps I'm not a queen yet but," as she filled her three slim gold cigarette cases, "I soon will be. _Queen._ Understand?" "%--&&&&&*% *(*)#**"*# ---- ---!!!!." muttered Musty in his native tongue. (A darned barefaced queen in britches! May the Prophet part me from my whiskers!) "What, sirrah?" "Allah witness, I said nothing." "Keep right on doing that," said Verbeena. Her words came in a tone of authority which added to the fact that she accurately snapped a live fag end at his right eye, caused Musty to sink through his jelab or Sahara overcoat. But after he had dug himself a shell hole in the desert, he said from deeply beneath his head wrappings: