Adventure Magazine Cover, November 10, 1924 — page 148: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

146 the first scribe, to a place where he could not communicate with the basha concerning the gold. Truly, there had been a handful of good fortune in these things. It was an easy matter for him to slip the gold into his shakarah, while the two maghaznis of the dead officer were making sure that Sid Walid was quite dead; and to proclaim bitterly that the escaped first scribe had taken it. The excitement had been brief, but intense enough, so that he was certain no thought of the gold had been in the heads of his soldiers, who were only stupid fellows any- way. Thus, he had gained approval from the basha for the slaying of Sid Walid; he had secured a sum of more than a thousand pounds sterling; and now he was riding in honor to take over the governorship of Tetwan. Truly the smiles of Allah were pleasant. “His Excellency, the basha of Tetwan.” It was a toothsome title. And, without ques- tion, he would some day possess that of “His Excellency, the basha of Fez,’ or per- haps even greater. Had not El Menehbi, a black kitchen slave, recently become Vizier of the Shareefian Treasure, and very wealthy thereby? “Sid Allal Warzazi, Vizier of the Treasury.” Ah! That wasa title, a noble title. But in the mean time Tetwan waited, and there were riches to be seized in Tet- wan—offices to sell, immunities to be re- tailed, perquisites and concessions to be vended, protection to be profited by—and great amounts of taxes to be collected by the simple process of throwing into jail as many as the jail would hold, assessing them as much as they could pay, or more, and holding them in prison until they, or their friends, paid the assessment. And for each man released, another would be found to take his place, so that the profit- able game could continue a long time— probably until the arrival of a new year with its new taxes. This, thought Sid Allal, was the great advantage of being basha of a small town rather than khalifa of a big one. Khalifa of Fez he had been. Bah! Scarcely one real out of every dollar of taxes had he been able to retain for himself. Besides which, the basha of Fez had been a fool—he could have gotten twice as much had not his heart been the heart of a cow. Adventure ‘“‘We shall see,” thought Sid Allal, whose heart assuredly was not that of a cow. “The people of Tetwan shall make me rich within the year, or they will desire that their mothers had never been born.” His head filled with such pleasant thoughts Sid Allal rode toward his gover- norship; while Allah, with mercy in His heart towards the kindly folk of Tetwan, looked down into a little village hidden among the foothills of the Atlas, not a great way from Tetwan, and decided to set in motion certain people whom he saw there. As a preliminary to this he caused one of the riders at the tailend of the khalifa’s following to lag far behind, to be lost to sight when the procession, like a huge lizard, wriggled over a hill, to turn his horse and to ride swiftly away on an eastward course which led him at approximately a right angle away from the khalifa. This was not observed. But had it been, it would have attracted no important attention, for on such an occasion as this, villagers were con- stantly joining the procession, to ride a lit- tle way, to share a little in the general enthusiasm, and then to drop out. IT WAS a good horse which this deserter of glory rode, as a result of which it took its rider before night- fall into the little hidden village among the northern Atlas foothills where Mohamed Ali, his cousin, lay. There, in a poor hut, he pulled off his dusts- djellaba and threw himself upon the cushions where his kinsman squatted at ease. He was now revealed, in brightly silken shirt, velvet badayak, or vest, well garnished with silken embroidery applique, baggy pantaloons of fine broadcloth, and of a robin’s egg-blue, color, white wool stockings and new soft-soled leather riding boots of velvet-soft green Marraksh leather. Mohamed Ali looked at him, and grunted. “Humph! If fine feathers made brave birds, you would be an eagle.”’ Now, Mohamed Ali’s cousin, Mustapha, was a little undersized for his eighteen years; somewhat pale of skin, with gentle brown eyes and a ghost of a mustache, and a quick smile. That was the visible outside; and as for the inside of him, he had no great merits and no great vices—which is only another way of saying that he had only a very commonplace imagination. Ghook Wh) CO © 5}