"Well," remarked the Colonel, wiping the sweat and ashes from his face, "that's the only gin-house I ever knew to be saved."
"But our machinery is ruined." And Lyttleton Bey swore in every language that he knew.
"Oh, no. She'll be running in a week," the Colonel insisted.
"Not a chance," said McDonald. "We'll have to order new parts from Alexandria. That'll take three months, or three years—Egypt is so damnably slow."
"Den us kin go home, can't us, Cunnel?" Zack's quivering voice put in.
Not trusting himself close enough to hear an answer from the American Effendi, Said noted the suspicious glances which passed between those two Ingleezi. Lyttleton Bey started to speak out at once, then changed his mind and inquired:
"How do you suppose it caught?"
He and McDonald asked their question together, and addressed it to the Colonel, yet both the Britishers looked at Zack for a reply.
"Can't imagine. There was no fire about the place. Zack, you were near the gin last night?"
"Yas suh, Cunnel," the negro admitted with surprising promptitude. "Yas suh. I come over to dis gin 'bout bed time, an' 'twarn't a spark nowhar. It's mighty curyous to git afire jes' whilst I was sayin' I wisht it would burn. Ain't dat like a
