Lyttleton had seen much of these turbaned tribes, and the mystical grip of the desert held him fast. Like others who once tasted service in this land, many times he had quitted it for ever—only to wander back and back again.
Colonel Spottiswoode was beginning to understand this horizon fever. "Seven palms," he mused; then he caught sight of Zack puffing at a cigar, and displaying himself before the servants, particularly the attentive Said, who jumped whenever his worshipful black Effendi shouted: "Whar he!"
Colonel Spottiswoode smiled and called, "Zack! Oh Zack!"
"Comin', suh." Zack marched like a soldier, for McDonald had hinted to the negro that Arab traders in Wadi Haifa mistook him for a certain famous Sudani officer, who had fought in Mexico under Marshal Bazaine. So Zack touched his helmet and saluted.
The Colonel nodded towards the mirage. "Zack, how's your eyesight? Can you see that spring?"
"Sholy, Cunnel, I jes been watchin' dat spring."
"We've made a bet. How many trees do you count?"
Zack squirmed himself to meet his responsibility. He squinted and counted, and counted and squinted; then announced: "Seben, Cunnel.
