even if he had understood their language, for Tabira asked, "Is it the Expected One?"
The jabbering broke out again—like a gabble of geese scared up at midnight. Some said "No" and some said "Yes"—everybody said something. Then a big man came striding out from a tent—a man who was born white but who had got over it—for this was Sandy McNish, ex-bushranger in Australia, ex-slave trader in Darfur, ex-ivory hunter in the Congo, now prospecting for gold in Nubia. Zack failed to relish the looks of McNish. McNish knew that Zack didn't belong in the Sudan, nor yet in Egypt. "Where did you come from?" he demanded, to Zack's great joy, in English.
"Vicksburg, Missippi, suh."
"What is your name?"
"Zack Foster, suh; but ev'ybody, white an' black, calls me 'Ole Reliable.'"
McNish made a gesture of impatience. "What are you doing here?"
"I come over to teach dese niggers"
"I mean, what are you doing out here—near this camp?"
Then Zack told him about going for the bucket of water. McNish turned to the sheikh, who already began to inquire, "Is it the Expected One, the Great Teacher?"
Of course, Zack couldn't understand their jab-
