Page:O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories for 1919.pdf/78



URTHERMORE, howadji,” ventured Najib, who had not spoken for fully half an hour, but had been poring over a sheaf of shipment items scribbled in Arabic, “furthermore, I am yearnful to know who was the unhappy person the wicked general threatened. Or, of a perhaps, it was that poor general himself who was bethreatened by his padishah or by the”

“What on earth are you babbling about, Najib?” absent-mindedly asked Logan Kirby, as he looked up from a month-old New York paper which had arrived by muleteer that day and which the expatriated American had been reading with pathetic interest.

Now, roused from his perusal by Najib’s query, Logan saw that the little Syrian had ceased wrestling with the shipment items and was peering over his employer’s shoulder, his beady eyes fixed in keen curiosity on the printed page.

“I enseeched you to tell me, howadji,” said Najib, “who has been threatening that poor general. Or, perchancely, who has been made to cower himself undertheneath of that fierce general’s threatenings. See, it is there, howadji. There, in the black line at the left top end of the news. See?”

Following the guidance of Najib’s stubby, unwashed finger, Kirby read the indicated headline:

“Oh!” he answered, choking back a grin. “I see. There isn’t any ‘general,’ Najib. And he isn’t threatened. It means”