Rire-pour-tout grew sick of it.
'This won't do,' he said; 'here's two weeks gone by, and I haven't shot anything but kites and jackals.

I shall get my hand out.' For Rire-pour-tout, as the army knows, somehow or other, generally potted his man every day, and he missed it terribly.

Well, what did he do?
He rode off one morning and found out the Arab camp, and he waved a white flag for a parley.

He didn't dismount, but he just faced the Arabs and spoke to their Sheik.

'Things are slow,' he said to them.