to get on his back, pretty much as
horsemen of other lands despise the tender foot who can't rope
and saddle his own pony. There's no excuse for that, of course;
it stands to reason that lots of first-class men can't mount a
camel standing, never having done it; but, according to desert
lore, whoever has to make his camel kneel is a person of
no account.

So I started off with at least one minus mark not notched against
me. There was also an enormous feeling of relief, because I heard
those two brats blubbering at being left behind.

And oh, what a start that was before the moon-rise, with the
great soft-footed beasts like shadows stringing one behind
another into line through the streets of a city as old as
Abraham! Utter silence, except for three camel bells with
different notes. Instant, utter severance from all the new world,
with its wheels that get you nowhere and conventions that have no
meaning except organized whimsy.

Peace under the stars, wholly aloof and apart from the problem
that had sent us forth. And the feel under you of league-welcoming
resilience, whatever the camels might say by way of objection.
And they said a very great deal gutturally, as camels always do,
yielding their prodigious power to our use with an incomprehensible
mixture of grouchiness and inability to do less than their best.

Grim rode in advance. His was the first camel bell that jangled
with a mellow note somewhere in the darkness around the turn of a
narrow street, or in a tunnel, where house joined house overhead.
The lady Ayisha's was the second bell, three beasts ahead of me;
she being the guest of honor as it were, or, rather, the prize
passenger, it was important to know her whereabouts at any given
moment. And last of all came old Ali Baba with the third bell
announcing that all were present and correct. He and his men sat
their camels with a stately pride more than half due to the
rifles and bandoliers that had been served out.

That black-faced fellow on the little Bishareen did not trouble
himself about position in the line as long as we wound through
the city streets. He was next in front of me, and I saw him
exchange signals with a fat man in a house door, who may have
been Rafiki the wool-merchant. Narayan Singh was next behind me,
and I looked back to make sure that he had seen the signal too.

But when we passed out of the city at the south end and began to
swing along a white road at a clip that was plenty