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sunlight drenched the forward deck of the old steamer where the pilgrims for Jidda were making themselves comfortable. A group squatted about Ben Mohamet, a big Afghan of the Durant Clan, laughing delightedly at his Rabelaisan stories. Very popular was this Ben Mohamet.

"Now, when the Sultan came home that night"

He paused. A battle-scarred veteran of many pilgrimages got up and left the group to help a blind man from the rail to his mat.

"Ah," said Ben Mohamet, "we have, I see, many of God's afflicted with us. Blind and lame men! But there is one more unfortunate than all the rest—this deaf and dumb man at my side. For consider, brothers—he can not hear my delightful stories!"

The group laughed at this typical hill wit. Ben Mohamet told another tale. Then a pipe was passed around. It looked like a coconut with a hole in it, the bowl stuck in on the top. Ben Mohamet drew in the awful smoke without a shudder. He was used to it. For years this most remarkable of India's secret service men—Sinnat, 006, known among his intimates as "Bugs"—had lived and moved among Mohametans. A rumor of another Mahdi, Mohametan Messiah, had decided him to make die dangerous pilgrimage to Mecca. Another Mahdi meant a Holy War—a jehad troublesome and perhaps dangerous to British rule in India

"Who is this poor man to whom God has given a silent tongue and ears that hear not?" Bugs asked the group about him.

Nobody knew. The deaf mute was a stranger. But nearly all were strangers to one another. The group demanded the tale of the Rajah of Swat, who was a man of strange emotions

So the day went by. At the time for evening prayer they all faced in the direction of Mecca and went through their somewhat gymnastic devotions.

Bugs lay down on his mat. He had been watching the deaf mute intently ever since the steamer left Bombay. He had helped him at every opportunity, as the other well pilgrims helped the blind and the sick. And he was distinctly puzzled, for he was convinced that the deaf mute could both hear and speak, if he wished, as well as he could himself.

"He's not a native, either," thought Bugs. "Now, what's he doing here, aping that difficult part? Who the devil can he be? What's he. pretending to be a deaf-mute Mohametan for—a pilgrim going to Mecca?"

Bugs went to sleep. The stars passed overhead. The pilgrims snored and tossed uneasily on the hard deck—somewhat cooled by the eight knot progress of the steamer through the oily swell of the Arabian Sea. A blind man talked in his sleep, quoting the Kuran. Another growled in the dream memory of some old fight. Every half-hour the colashe