said in canteen that all “them orficers are lousy, bleedin', cocky swine.”
Now Hector used practically the identical tactics with regard to Koom Khan, the ex-commander-in-chief, whom Wahab al-Shaitan had put in jail during his term of office.
He visited him there and found him in decidedly bad humor. But he said to himself that this man who glared at him out of hasheesh reddened eyes without a word in answer to his courtly greeting, was an Oriental and, by the same token, a man hard to manage yet easy to inspire; a man, moreover, who preferred a certain subtle brutality to all the logic in the world and believed profoundly that casuistry was the final essence of ratiocination.
Wherefore he studied him as he might an exotic and nauseating beetle, not sure whether he should crush it under foot or simply ignore its existence, and said, ironically, with pauses between the words:
“Koom Khan, thou and I must either be friends—or enemies.”
The other blinked his swollen eyelids and waved a negligent hand.
“Very well,” He replied. “Let us be enemies, Al Nakia.”
“Agreed.” Hector rose and walked to the door. There he turned and added, quite gently, “But we shall not be enemies for long.”
“For as long as there is breath in my body!” burst out Koom Khan.
“That is just what I meant when I said that it
