donkies for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir. O Lor! Put your hand under the camel-bags and tell me what you feel."
I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another.
"Twenty of 'em," said Dravot placidly. "Twenty of 'em, and ammunition to correspond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls."
"Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!" I said. "A Martini is worth her weight in silver among the Pathans."
"Fifteen hundred rupees of capital—every rupee we could beg, borrow or steal—are invested on these two camels," said Dravot. "We won't get caught. We're going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who'd touch a poor mad mullah?"
"Have you got everything you want," I asked overcome with astonishment.
"Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of your kindness, Brother. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar. Half my kingdom shall you have, as the saying is. "I slipped a small charm-compass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the mullah.
"Good-bye," said Dravot, giving me his hand cautiously. "It's the last time we'll shake hands with an Englishman these many days. Shake hands with him, Carnehan," he cried, as the second camel passed me.
Carnehan leant down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away along the dusty road and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could detect no failure in the disguises. The scene in the Serai showed that they were complete to the native mind. There was just the chance, therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander through Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they would find death, certain and awful death.
Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me the news of the day from Peshawar, wound up his letter with: "There
