could master at one time, without the aid of some uprooting shock, was that henceforth they were to get double pay and half labour.
A calm fatalism of hopelessness, bred perhaps of his long residence in the homeland of fatalism, began to creep over Kirby. In one hour his golden ambitions for the mine and for himself had been smashed. At best he saw no hope of getting the obsessed mine crew to work soon enough to save his present contracts. He would be lucky if, on non-receipt of their demanded increase, they did not follow Najib’s muddled preachments to the point of sabotage.
The more he thought of it, the less possible did it seem to Kirby that Najib could undo the damage he had so blithely done. Ordering the blubbering little fellow out of the tent and refusing to speak or listen further, Kirby went to bed.
Oddly enough, he slept. There was nothing to worry about. When a man’s job or fortune are imperilled sleep vanishes. But after the catastrophe what sense is there in lying awake? Depression and nervous fatigue threw Kirby into a troubled slumber. Only once in the night was he roused.
Perhaps two hours before dawn he started up at sound of a humble scratching at the open door flap of his tent. On the threshold cowered Najib.
“Furthermore, howadji,” came the Syrian’s woe-begone voice through the gloom, “could I borrow me a book if I shall use it with much carefulness?”
Too drowsy to heed the absurdity of such a plea at such an hour, Kirby grumbled a surly assent, and dozed again as he heard Najib rumbling, in the dark, among the shelves of the packing-box bookcase in a far corner of the tent. Here were stored nearly a hundred old volumes which had once been a part of the missionary library belonging to Kirby’s father at Nablous. A few years earlier, at the moving of the mission, the dead missionary’s scanty library had been shipped across country to his son.
Kirby awoke at greyest daylight. Through force of habit he woke at this hour; in spite of the workless day
