"That's up to him," smiled Verbeena, taking a heavy smash at the marmalade. "Although I have every confidence that he will give little trouble. From his tales of passion I am certain he is well-behaved. But in view of the event I think, Amut, we should really move to a larger oasis. It's possible he carries his adjectives with him." "Wonderfully thoughtful," murmured the Sheik. "What did you say?" asked Verbeena. "I said, 'Hello, kid!'" "Hello," said Verbeena. To the Sheik her affability was immeasurably amazing. * * * * * The Ben Butlers had moved to Oasis No. 12. This was a suburb of Oudjda from whence, if you were out of things, you could always get breakfast at Guercif. For three days Mr. Hitchings had been taking his meals and notes with the Ben Butlers. His observations of the Sheik and Verbeena had moved his heart to pity. So that he had very little left when the Sheik was carried in by two men. A horse had refused to be trained and the Sheik A. Ben Butler was therefore invested with six broken ribs. He breathed like a dice-box in full cry. [Illustration: THE ALLEGED MR. HITCHINGS.] Verbeena prodded the Sheik somewhat and, deciding that he wouldn't die, came into the outer tent and caused Mr. Hitchings to pause in the taking of his notes by pulling his chair from under him. "Did you wish to speak to me?" said Mr. Hitchings under the chair and circumstances. "A little, Robert. Who, you know, after all, is he?" "You mean Sheik Amut?" "I certainly," said Verbeena, "am not discussing Velasquez, Amerigo Vespucci or Jack Dempsey. The yellow hair and the black whiskers are noticeably incompatible, don't you think?" "To be sure," assented Mr. Hitchings. "Well then----" and he got red in the face. "I'll tell you. It was this way: "In the first place he hates the English." "I hadn't noticed that," said Verbeena. "But he does--really. And why?" Verbeena lifted her clubbed curls well off her ears. "Why?" For some reason or other she saw that Mr. Hitchings looked greatly distressed. "Because--well, you see, his father was the Earl of Glucose but not a sticker for the proprieties. I might even say he drank freely. That was not a habit clearly to take into the Sahara. And when thus bedizened he sometimes failed in courtesy. Especially toward his wife. She was Spanish but unquestionably all her life long had walked normally. She was a bit of a Moor too. But new to sand-dunes. One evening the Earl of Glucose feeling like kicking about a bit selected his wife. He busied himself thus for some time. "Then it would seem he kicked her so far that he couldn't find her nor could she find herself and thus it was she happened upon the suburban oasis of Sheik Ben Butler, senior. "A boy was born. Kicking just like his father. "The Sheik did not send her to his harem but kept the Spanish lady with him hanging right around his neck until she died in his arms. Not promptly but nearly so.