We rested and lunched, and came on to this place, Ain Mellahah (the boys call it Baldwinsville.) It was a very short day's run, but the dragoman does not want to go further, and has invented a plausible lie about the country beyond this being infested by ferocious Arabs, who would make sleeping in their midst a dangerous pastime.

Well, they ought to be dangerous.

They carry a rusty old weather-beaten flint-lock gun, with a barrel that is longer than themselves; it has no sights on it, it will not carry farther than a brickbat, and is not half so certain.

And the great sash they wear in many a fold around their waists has two or three absurd old horse-pistols in it that are rusty from eternal disuse -- weapons that would hang fire just about long enough for you to walk out of range, and then burst and blow the Arab's head off.

Exceedingly dangerous these sons of the desert are.
It used to make my blood run cold to read Wm.