brought me their very rough African wine and a loaf, and sat down
opposite me, looking at me fixedly under the candle. Then he said:

"To-morrow you will see Timgad, which is the most wonderful town in
the world."

"Certainly not to-night," I answered; to which he said, "No!"

I took a bite of the food, and he at once continued rapidly:
"Timgad is a marvel. We call it 'the marvel.' I had thought of
calling this house 'Timgad the Marvel,' or, again, 'Timgad
the----'"

"Is this sheep?" I said.

"Certainly," he answered. "What else could it be but sheep?"

"Good Lord!" I said, "it might be anything. There is no lack of
beasts on God's earth." I took another bite and found it horrible.

"I desire you to tell me frankly," said I, "whether this is goat.
There are many Italians in Africa, and I shall not blame any man
for giving me goat's flesh. The Hebrew prophets ate it and the
Romans; only tell me the truth, for goat is bad for me."

He said it was not goat. Indeed, I believed him, for it was of a
large and terrible sort, as though it had roamed the hills and
towered above all goats and sheep. I thought of lions, but
remembered that their value would forbid their being killed for the
table. I again attempted the meal, and he again began:

"Timgad is a place----"

At this moment a god inspired me, and I shouted, "Camel!" He did
not turn a hair. I put down my knife and fork, and pushed the plate
away. I said:

"You are not to be blamed for giving me the food of the country,
but for passing it under another name."

He was a good host and did not answer. He went out, and came back
with cheese. Then he said, as he put it down before me:

"I do assure you it is sheep," and we discussed the point no more.

That is an amusing episode and wholly characteristic. The humour of Mr.
Belloc's books, particularly of his books of travel, resides in a
quantity of such tales, not acutely and extravagantly funny, but all
amusing because they are all (apparently) true.

With that more practical branch of humour, satire, the angle of view
shifts a little. The power of making laughter becomes here a weapon, and
its hostile purpose, as it were, sharpens the point. Mr. Belloc's satire
has a hardness and a precision lacking in the broad and general effects
of his quite irrespon