Title: The Shriek - A Satirical Burlesque
Author: Somerville, Charles
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Shriek - A Satirical Burlesque" ***


    [Illustration: MISS VERBEENA MAYONNAISE IN ALL HER WONDROUS
    BOYISH GRACE AND BEAUTY.]



    THE SHRIEK

    _A Satirical Burlesque_

    BY

    CHARLES SOMERVILLE


    With illustrations
    BY THE AUTHOR

    NEW YORK
    W. J. WATT & COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS


    COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
    W. J. WATT & COMPANY


    _Printed in the United States of America_



THE SHRIEK



CHAPTER I


"Are you comin' to the dawncin', Lady Speedway?" asked the American in
his best transatlantic liner accent.

"Most decidedly not!"

Mind you, this answer from Lady Speedway meant red lights ahead.

At the Hotel Biscuit she had the authority of a traffic policeman as
to whom were who as well as what was what regarding the foreign colony
tirelessly wasting its time on the verge of the tawny Sahara.

She was the Field Marshal of the Front Porch Knitting Needle Hussars,
nicknamed "Hussies."

Her approbation was olive oil; her discountenance prickly heat.

"Of course," she added, "while recognizing that expatiation does not
include brevity, one may not stand as I do now--in the soft light of
the balcony and well off the main scene, I hope you observe--without
declaring one's self aggressively out of sympathy with the maddeningly
awful expedition of which this dance is the insolubly idiotic
inauguration.

"To give my opinion concisely, plainly, briefly, without
ratiocinations, fulminations, obscurations, diversions, digressions or
nuances, I go on record as saying that this flapper, Verbeena
Mayonnaise,--the absurd chit--is impossible!"

"O, me lady!"

"Yes, I am. And that's more than Verbeena Mayonnaise will find herself
if she insists on carrying on in this matter.

"A lone girl, crossing the desert with only native camel drivers and
servants in attendance! Chaperoned only by her hand luggage! The idea
is rhapsodically rancid!

"The rash creature is simply throwing her good name to the American
Sunday supplements and Margot Asquith at 'ome."

The American trembled.

"Not," said Lady Speedway letting out a few buckles in her necklace,
"that I'll need to take any sleeping powders over that feature of the
affair. But its effect on the Continent! The puncture it is bound to
give British prestige!

[Illustration: LADY SPEEDWAY, WHO HAD THE AUTHORITY OF A TRAFFIC
POLICEMAN AS TO SOCIAL MATTERS AT THE HOTEL BISCUIT.]

"We English cannot be too careful of our 'h's' and this mad girl picks
the Sahara!

"I think only of what _La Vie Parisienne_ will have to say about it
and I blush all over. In this gown you will, I think, be able to see
most of it."

"O, come, Lady Speedway!"

"Where to?"

"I mean it's not quite as bad as all that! In planning this lone
desert trip Verbeena may be doing something on the brink of the
very-very, but," said the American stoutly, "one has to consider the
jolly queer childhood circumstances of the ripping little rotter."

"My dear man, unless I've had a crack of amnesia don't you suppose I
know positively that the entire Mayonnaise outfit was designed as
dressing for a nut salad?"

"Indeed?"

"Rather! But mark my words, if she persists in this scandalous venture
she'd best make her explanations in Arabic when she gets back. Her
story will sound a bit garish in English I fancy! A single gel--a
flapper--amid a flock of males Orientally disposed! Why----"

Drawing her wrap around her as far as it would go, Lady Speedway shook
her dependent chins vigorously and departed.

"Oh, my word and tosh!" exclaimed the American. "Old scandal
sprinkler!"

"Good heavens!" cried his phlegmatic British companion, "isn't it true
how one misses one's opportunities? Here I've known Verbeena
Mayonnaise all her life and never a breath of scandal has touched her!

"In the first place, you know, Verbeena isn't a mere human girl. She
had an uncle who was an old pig, her father was a balmy bloater and
her brother is an ass!"

"O, I say, really?" asked the American, fingering the English tailor's
label on his clothing and looking sharply into the ballroom. "Whereas
she herself was clearly meant for a boy and was changed at the last
moment. She looks like a boy in skirts, a damned pretty boy--and a
damned haughty one."

"I falter," said the Englishman courteously, "at an attempt to think
of a boy no matter how damned pretty he might be, looking haughty in
skirts. But have it your own way, old dear. However, please remember
the handicap that Lady Speedway has taken on me and don't interrupt in
the matter of these Mayonnaises. Why, I was brought up right next to
'em, as it were, and----"

"An odd streak in the family?"

"Streak? A psychopathic rainbow, old dear!

"Her father, Sir John Mayonnaise and his wife were so passionately
devoted that they had two children born nineteen years apart.

"The first was Lord Tawdry. You've seen him?"

"O, quite."

"There was discouragement for a devoted couple if you like!

"Then when Verbeena was born her mother died immediately.

"Ten seconds later Sir John grasped a big pistol and blew his brains
somewhere or other. Nobody criticized the act of Sir John save as to
the size of the pistol. Least of all he who is now Lord Tawdry."

"There was no suicide clause in Sir John's insurance policy, I take
it?"

"What a sharp devil you are! Exactly. And one doesn't blame Tawd
really for what followed regarding Verbeena. That is to say, he turned
down about fifty female advisers and decided to bring Verbeena up as a
Johnny instead of a Mildred. Can you conceive?"

"Not easily."

"It was less trouble--it wouldn't, you know, take up so much of his
time. He needed all that for training up on bridge and American poker
in order to conserve the old patrimony thing."

"Brought her up just as a boy?"

"Like a bally nipper! Quite. Ridin', wrestlin', boxin', boatin',
fightin'--wherever she might be duly confident of victory--jumpin',
runnin', skatin', skeein', golfin', gamblin'--er----"

"No sex at all?"

"Had she any the little dear must have wrestled with it long ago and
lost."

"Ah," said the American, "that would account for her sang Freud."

"O, indeed, I assure you, cold as a fish."

"She probably feels the void?"

"Sir?"

"Figures the hot sands of the desert may warm her up a bit."

"Frapjous! And yet you see, she goes alone! What in the world her idea
is I'm sure I--_look_--there's young Butternut after her now! A good
lad but not, I think, quite clear above. Really you know he can't be.
For surely must he know that all Verbeena inherited from her father
was the pistol Sir John shot himself with. Although, of course, she
shares with her brother, Tawdry, the same damned haughty luck at
bridge. These two things and a sterling uppercut is all she owns and
yet he would marry her!"

"You'd think he'd have a Butternut," said the American shamelessly,
although, after due explanation, the Englishman broke into hilarious
laughter.

"You mean, he hadn't best? I quite agree with you."

They stood with looks of mild intelligence on their cosmopolitanly
caustic countenances at Lord Tawdry and his sister, Verbeena, as they
sat predominantly on the platform of the ballroom acting as host and
hostess with tremendous _haute monde de flair_.

Lord Tawdry was six feet two in height, though seated, and half a foot
wide and he wore an eight-pound black mustache to show that regardless
of Verbeena's curiously trained character, there was nothing
ambisextrous about himself.

His courtesy was so inbred that he kept looking the company over as if
he wished they'd all go home and let him go to bed. His sleek head
would drop forward sleepily from time to time but always bob up like
the balloon it possibly perhaps was maybe.

The distinguished nobleman was, moreover, an awful tramp at wearing a
monocle. It was dropping out of his eye every few minutes keeping six
servants busy catching it and putting it back. Frequently they took a
mean advantage and slapped it back.

Verbeena, you betcher, was different from her brother despite all that
had otherwise been done for and to her. Anybody could see she was
violently alive, that she had verve to the crescendo of the
fluorescent.

[Illustration: LORD TAWDRY, FROM A PORTRAIT BY HEVVINS IN THE
ANCESTRAL CASTLE AT MAYONNAISE-ON-LETTYS.]

Strangely enough, she was smaller than her brother. But she had a pair
of shoulders did Verbeena and her ball gown revealed the ripple of the
steel muscles on her young arms.

Straddling her chair on the platform she kicked up her heels in her
boyish, athletic manner and snapped a smoking cigarette into the air
every once in a while, catching it by the lighted end in her firm,
proud, scornful, obstinate, determined, appealing, impulsive,
unsatisfied sweet mouth.

Twice she missed and set fire to her skirt, but what did this boyish,
lovely creature care about a skirt?

Her eyes were marvelous. They were crossed between a sea green and a
pond blue but her black eyebrows were obviously alike and offered
strange contrast to the loose, red, bobbed curls she wore, clubbed
about her ears.

In the course of training her Lord Tawdry had always attended to the
style in which she wore her hair.

In the company at the Hotel Biscuit dance all the men dropped their
partners, even if they weren't their wives, and trooped toward
Verbeena, an international galaxy of adorers comprising Scotch, Irish,
Spanish, Scandinavians, Malays, Canadians, Moabites and--well, that
will be about enough--but toward all of them who pleaded, some with
twanging guitars, others with ukeleles and one with a harmonica for a
chance to clasp her boyish beauty in the ardor of a kicky dance, Miss
Mayonnaise had but one insouciant, petulant reply:

"Aw, g'wan. Fade!"

Young Butternut stood nearby with his heart in his eyes. He was
nodding joyfully and murmuring softly for her ear alone:

"'Attaboy!"

"I say, chappie, what are you cooing about?" finally demanded Miss
Mayonnaise.

"Please, old thing, a word alone out on the balcony," Butternut
abjectly amplified.

"You've a jolly cheek," retorted Verbeena lighting another cigarette.
"And yet?" she suddenly arose and knocked the pleasing young man for a
few feet with a merry clap on the ear. "I'll take you on. I like you,
Butternut. You remind me so much of your sister."

She pulled out a guinea and started matching him as they passed from
the ballroom and out upon the balcony under the ambient, silver light
of the romantic moon which was, indeed, shining.

Two minutes later and from the direction of this same window out of
which they had passed--you remember, harmlessly matching
guineas--sounded a wild, prolonged and subtly syncopated ladylike
screech.

A hush came over the crowded room. Regular ladies huddled fearsomely
against shaky-kneed, cosmopolitan daredevils while craven waiters went
out to see what the trouble was. Somebody tore the hotel doctor away
from his absinthe drip and rushed him out too.

A solemn procession returned.

Frightened faces drew apart to let it pass. Frightened eyes gazed upon
a white stretcher borne in the center of it. On it was the prone
figure of a person whose face was also white.

The figure recumbent was boyish.

But it was not that of Verbeena Mayonnaise. The white face showed the
delicate, feminine profile of Bertie Butternut!

In the frame of the balcony window stood another boyish figure. Sure
enough this was Verbeena in all her laddie-like grace and poised with
a seeming boyish indifference.

But it could be seen by those who knew her at all that Miss Mayonnaise
was perturbed. For at one grab she had emptied the contents of her
slim gold case and was moodily smoking six cigarettes at once.

       *       *       *       *       *

Verbeena returned to her rooms and undressed herself.

She couldn't keep a maid. They always ended by calling her "Sir."

At this connecting point or juncture, there came a knock on the door
and Verbeena called in her fresh, young baritone:

"Who the dickens is this and what do you want at this hour?"

"A note for you, monsieur--pardon, mademoiselle."

"O, stick it under the door," she replied.

But when she had looked at the note she gurgled:

"Zingo! But this will put Tawdry in a bait! He will be furious at me!
As if I should worry! He forgets I'm twenty-one and my punch is
getting better every day."

She nodded stoutly.

"Brother Tawd has clubbed my curls about my ears for the last time.
And I had no heart for this scheme of his! But the other stunt--the
desert, freedom, kicking along the old Sahara man enough for any
emergency and my own little notion of what may come of it--those
things for Verbeena!"

She looked again at the note in her hand.

"God bless Butternut," said Verbeena Mayonnaise.

She ran to the balcony, leaned far over and kicked up her heels and
burst into wild and rippling laughter at certain thoughts of Tawdry
and of Butternut which flooded beneath her carmine cap of hair, until
Lord Tawdry looking through the adjoining lattice said sternly:

"See here, young fellow, me lad, cut that!"

"O, cut your throat, you big mooch," she replied haughtily. "I'm an
icicle myself but I know a grand moon when I see one!"

But she wasn't looking at the moon at all. She was leaning out as far
as she could and peering on the balcony below where she thought she
had seen a sign of white drapery. But when she looked again it was
gone.

Had she only known!

If she had she'd have known it was Lady Speedway stretching her ear to
try and find out why a messenger was going at so late an hour to the
room of a single girl like Miss Mayonnaise.

But as it was, Verbeena squatted on the balcony rail lighting
cigarette after cigarette as she looked out into the market place
where the moon and her nostrils told her was the caravan she had
engaged from Musty Ale for her wild, mad adventure.

If Butternut had acted differently--but Butternut hadn't!

Dear little Butternut, sweet little Butternut!

She had his note to prove it conclusively to Lord Tawdry. To-morrow
would see her plunging forth into the yellow wilderness, the vast
places, the majestic silences, the----

Verbeena felt a sudden, mad boyish temptation to shoot her cigarette
stump into the eye of a native sleeping at the foot of the verandah.
But, very unusual with her in such cases, she refrained. It might
start some trouble and she didn't want that to happen now.

Nothing must prevent her journey upon the desert!

From her window she looked out toward it, so wonderful, so superb, so
exquisite, weird and beautiful. Exactly, she told herself, like a big,
black smudge.

But she cuddled in bed with one knee up to her neck in cute boyish
fashion, laughing softly at the remembrance of another time when she
had popped a cigarette stump into the eye of a London bobby from the
top of a 'bus.

And such a merry fight as she had put up when he had yanked her down!

She was wearing her usual boy's clothes and when she had given her
real name at the station, the policeman wouldn't believe it of her
and the matron had resigned rather than carry the investigation
further.

Verbeena gave her boyish head a twist or two on the pillow and then
she slept. Two weird sounds were in her ears as she dropped off. One
was a queer, wild, melancholy song. The other was the snores of Lord
Tawdry, equally weird, equally melancholy, equally wild.

Yet she slept.

But an hour later awoke.

Verbeena untied her long, knotted eyelashes and peered about.

Had--she seen something?

The moon was all there, the famous, well-known Biscuit moon, lighting
the room riotously.

Yet she saw nothing. She took a sharp peek around. As her state of
consciousness emerged from the nebulous condition of soft pitch and
congealed to the concrete of a highway, Verbeena said softly to
herself:

"I could kick myself for a goal if I didn't see somp'n. Mystic it was,
white, thrilling, strange----"

"Meow!"

Verbeena rushed for the balcony but the cat took the rail in a streak.

"Bally thing!"

Again on the still white night she heard that weird song with its
slurred but insistent staccato _expressione_, ancient as the days of
the Pharaohs, the melancholy, passionate Katsbemerri.

But there would be no cats in the desert. Only nice, gentle, cute
little, wriggly sandworms. No big boob brother, Tawdry. No Knitting
Needle Hussars.

Out there, beyond, swallowed up in that dear black smudge she had seen
from the balcony her soul would wave its Stars and Stripes of freedom
and move grandly in the palpitant sunlight upon the yellow linoleum of
the mighty desert!

And she would have for company kickin', bitin' horses and daredevil
men, magnificent, virile, strenuous nomads of the wild silences and
the silver moons!

Only under no circumstances were they--any one of them--to be allowed
to go too far!

Camaraderie--yes, in her boyish way she would offer them that. But
beyond that----

"Remember, Verbie," she told herself. "As regards such bally things
you are an icicle--an icicle."

She shivered.

"An icicle!"

She drew the covers swiftly up to her chin--up to the loose, red curls
that brother Tawdry so loved to club about her ears.



CHAPTER II


The promised send-off of Verbeena from the Biscuit Hotel had been
enthusiastic.

"Very much so," had said Lady Speedway, the mean thing.

At dawn Musty Ale sent ahead the procession of baggage bearers, the
lumbering camels, all of them Verbeena thought showing great facial
resemblance to Lady Speedway and hoped some day to tell her so.

But otherwise she just adored them.

"See," said she to Lord Tawdry who had surprised her by getting up,
"the darling camels how they chew and chew and chew and are never
satisfied!"

At dawn also on many of the private balconies of the Biscuit Hotel
were seen veiled faces. They were veiled by lattices and lace
curtains--each with one eye out.

It was the espionage of the Knitting Needle Hussars.

"There she goes, the bold minx," murmured Mrs. the Honorable General
the Earl Dumpydale.

"She means to do it--to cross the desert alone! O, shameless!" openly
cried the Duchess Pyllboxe-Beauchamp.

"She'd better keep her fingers crossed at the same time!"

This from that old Lady Speedway, of course.

"Ah," murmured in the next balcony the Hon. Maude Tetherington, a cute
spinster of sixty who would remember you in her will if you told her
she didn't look it, "Ah!" and it was as if she were murmuring to
herself.

"Once I dreamed of riding in the desert and of a great, handsome Arab
pursuing me and----" it was, as stated, as if she were speaking to
herself but you bet Lady Speedway got it.

"And what?" Lady Speedway demanded with a cold look in her eye.

"There was no offense to the proprieties," said the Hon. Maude with
trembling accents. "I assure you I woke up in time."

The Hon. Maude drew her head within and snapped the lattices of her
window shut.

But a little later as she stood at her mirror tacking on her front
curls she paused, hammer in hand, to stare back in the direction she
had last seen Lady Speedway.

"But there have been times when I have greatly wished I hadn't--so
there!"

And she stuck out her tongue, nor', nor'west due east toward Speedway.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus amid a magnificent display of good-wishes, Verbeena Mayonnaise
set out to satisfy her soul longings upon the somewhat dusty Sahara,
under the capable guidance of Musty Ale and his equally musty camels
and his mustard colored men.

Lord Tawdry had stood in his balcony shaking his finger at Verbeena
and declaring if she dared set out he would be down directly and cane
her severely, but she answered pertly:

"Rot, old chap!"

As Verbeena rode ahead with Musty Ale, Lord Tawdry started in pursuit
on a camel which, however, refused to hump itself worthily, and
although Lord Tawdry kept crying out to Verbeena: "O, I say now--it
won't do! Do you hear me? Really this sort of thing simply isn't
done!" it was not until Musty Ale's caravan arrived at Oasis No. 1
that Lord Tawdry was able to catch up.

But as soon as he had fallen off his camel and readjusted his monocle,
he picked up a riding whip and chased Verbeena up a palm tree.

"You sickening ass!" our laddiebuck--I mean heroine called to him,
"you just drop that whip and I'll come down and show you who's who in
Sahara!"

Action wasn't Lord Tawdry's strong point anyway except with a good
deck of cards.

"Verbeena," he said, "come down peacefully and we'll have it out in
talk."

"O, you Hergesheimer!" smiled she, leaping to the ground, lighting a
cigarette in her descent.

"Now look here, Tawdry, what's the idea of your trailing me this way?
My mind's made up. You'll have simply missed a whole day at bridge and
you know you can't afford it. I'm going to put in a month--a full
month on the Sahara. I've the sand so why shouldn't I?"

Verbeena drew herself up and shot a cigarette snag squarely into a
lizard's eye. Pardon--I forgot to mention the lizard was twisting in
the brilliant sunshine on a nearby opalescent rock.

"Kid," said Lord Tawdry, not unkindly, "cut the proud boyish beauty
stuff for half a shake, if you please. One must get down to brass
tacks once in a while and just now the situation is such that I feel
as if I were sitting on the points of a million."

"Talk reasonably," said Miss Mayonnaise almost effeminately, "and I
will do what little I can to understand you."

"Well then, why this sudden interruption in our plans? The idea was
that I was to chuck myself to America and go to Newport or some other
nearby spot like Los Angeles and pluck for myself a wife somewhere
between twenty to forty in age and forty to sixty in millions of
American--er--buckoes--I think the bounders call 'em."

"And I," nodded Verbeena, "was to go along and subtly instruct the
victim that it wasn't necessary in good society to perform so many
fancy tricks as Americans do with their forks and that in acquiring an
English accent one didn't say fawncy for fancy. And I was to tell her
how sensitive you were about money--about ever being left without
any."

"Bright chap, you are, Verbeena! It was a jolly plan. But when
Butternut and his five thousand pun' a year came along I was willing
to sacrifice myself, was I not?

"I was willing," said Lord Tawdry, "to postpone America and stick to
bridge until you'd a chance to snap the bally, wedding manacles on the
pretty youth. And everything seemed moving perfectly until late last
night. His eyes were then shining like a pair of motor car lamps with
love for you.

"I saw him beg you to go out upon the balcony.

"And next a scream!

"Butternut is carried in on a stretcher and you stroll back looking
like an incense burner.

"I seek to see Butternut. I cannot. I seek explanation from you----"

"If only you hadn't begun with that usual stuff of clubbing my curls,
Tawdry!--I just made up my mind to let you remain in suspense a while.
But now I'll tell all!

"I tried to play fair, Tawdry, tried to play fair," said Verbeena
earnestly, "like the square little fellow I am."

"Did Butternut ask you to marry him out there on the balcony last
night?"

"He did."

"Well then?"

"Tawdry, old chap, I overplayed my hand. I threw myself into his arms
cooing 'Bertie, dearest Bertie' in as ladylike a manner as my bringing
up allows. And then he hugged me. And to show him I really loved him,
don't you know, I hugged him back. I just let myself go, old dear!"

"To be sure--quite right--under the circumstances."

"Stupid! I broke three of his ribs."

"My Gawd!"

"Not so amazing after all," said Verbeena with a glint of boyish
pride.

"And he--since--he----?"

"At three-thirty one and a half by my wrist watch--the only piece of
jewelry, by the way, you've left me--I received, Lord Tawdry, this
communication from the hospital cot of the Honorable Bertram
Butternut!"

Out of the hip pocket of her smart riding breeches, Verbeena flashed a
paper on her brother.

[Illustration: THE HONORABLE BERTIE BUTTERNUT, WHOSE PASSION WAS
CRUSHED WITH HIS RIBS.]

As he read it, he clutched wildly at his long black mustaches for
support.

     "'Dear old Verb,' the Hon. Bertie had written, 'I think you
     will be too much of a good fellow to hold me to my rash words
     of last night.

     "'The mater and I talked it over at my bedside while the
     plastercasts were being fashioned.

     "'Though the tears blot this letter yet through their splashes,
     I cannot but see that mamma's advice is good. Better, the mater
     says, a broken heart than a succession of fractured ribs!

     "'And myself looking into the future I cannot bear to think of
     my children beholding a father who is nothing but a cracked and
     shattered pulp.

     "'Mother begs you to be generous and says she is more than
     willing to be generous in her turn, desiring me to say she will
     be most glad amply to finance your contemplated trip into the
     desert. And even beyond.

     "'I hope, dear, we may ever remain pals. After all it will be
     nicer when we meet--will it not--just to shake hands?

     "'Brokenly,

     "'BERTIE.'"

"O, but I say, you know," said Lord Tawdry, "this could be patched
up."

"Only Bertie."

"Rot. You could hold him."

"Not if he saw me coming. The boy is the best sprinter at Oxford.
Anyway----"

Verbeena regarded her brother through the sweeping black lashes of her
impenetrably palpable orbs, considering carefully that the
fulminations between them had reached a clangorous climax of the
neurotically nepotic.

This was, indeed, the sort of look she gave him and she was a long
while at it.

He tried to stare back at her with the intolerability of the inhumanly
inoculated. But he found it fundamentally difficult and dropped his
eye-glass fifty-four times in the course of the construction of this
cryptic attitude.

Verbeena laughed. She would put the skids under him. It was time--high
time. Had he not already set his face, such as it was, against the
aspirations of her innermost urge? Hadn't he, because of ignorance of
the illuminative interior expansiveness of her reason for desiring to
hit forth into the Sahara sided with Old Hen Speedway and that whole
crew of clacking character assassins and killjoys?

And after himself training her to be a roughneck too?

Now he would seek to discourage her thrilling _tour de hopoff_ into
the Sahara!

Without knowing her very good reason for wanting to do it!

Pretending concern in her, had he not really joined the camp of her
enemies and detractors, the _volte face_ thing!

Of course, if the Ole Walrus knew! If she were to confide the ultimate
purpose of her crystal soul and stalactitic heart to him, spill the
beans of what was on her mind--it would be different. He'd cling to
her very stirrup and hop along clamoring for his piece of the
pickings.

But she could see he was passé, declassé, a prune pit in every way.

The perfumed gold mines of Newport and Palm Beach were his best
berry-picking grounds.

To take him with her--impossible! It would not only confuse the issue
but crab the act. Absolutely. She knew that in the romantic but in
conclusion pre-eminently profitable rumble she had in mind, Lord
Tawdry could only prove a hang-nail, that is to say a detriment to the
scheme.

She saw him readjust his monocle twelve times and yawn six and knew he
was going to say something. Not much--he never did. But----

"Blast it, Verbeena, you little rotter, what the deuce I say, you
know, is all this bally, bloomin', sand-eatin' desert journey about
anyway? I say, my dear chappie, what _is_ the idea?"

"None of your damned biznai, old thing. And there you have it."

"But I should really so like to know."

"Tosh!"

"But all the Mollie Jawags back at the Biscuit will jazz me awf'ly
about permitting you to tack off alone this way with----" Lord Tawdry
waved his hand toward Musty Ale and his turbaned crew.

"As if it would really worry you," said Miss Mayonnaise with a very
unboyish giggle.

"It doesn't, I confess, since Bertie Butternut's mother is financing
you. And yet--no, I can't allow it. I couldn't face it. I couldn't
lift me head if anything--er--anything, let us say, Oriental
happened."

"Well, you are seldom able to lift your head after ten in the morning
anyway," said Verbeena. "Let us waste no more time, my beloved
brother. Get into mental condition with yourself quickly and know that
for the next month a kid of the desert am I. Ain't I twenty-one now?
Got a vote that's just as good as yours at 'ome, and a punch that I
think is better.

"Nothing stops me--Tawd, nothing, old top. So take a spin for yourself
back to the Biscuit. And whatever thinking you do you can start all
over again from there."

Verbeena paused, astonished at herself.

She hadn't lighted a cigarette for forty seconds!

She got one going immediately and as she puffed voraciously at her fag
watched with keen pleasure the furrows gather on her brother's small
patch of sun-kissed brow.

Within two minutes, quite suddenly for him, Lord Tawdry drew a
revolver.

"Not to--to hint nothin', Verbie," he said "but you are to come back
to the hotel with me directly. Directly, do you hear?"

He looked at her impressively and shot at a camel. He hit a palm tree.

"I say you know!" he said and stared at his weapon stupidly. "I
never----"

He shot again. This time at the palm tree. But the camel neatly
ducked.

Verbeena smiled and started another cigarette. She went over to the
camel, rubbed its clever nose, brought out her gold-lined case and fed
the camel a ciggy too.

Then she turned toward her brother--turned with boyish abandon and
hauteur, of course--and spoke. Speaking she said:

"That will be about all from you, Tawd. Pack your gat."

Montrose, her brother's valet, an unexpectedly, entirely unusual
perfect servant, came along the Sahara bearing two plates of soup. It
was the appointed dining hour for Lord Tawdry. Regardless of what he
might do as to debts, he insisted on prompt feeding.

"Drop that soup," said Verbeena sternly. "Your master isn't staying to
dinner and the soup will not stain the sand.

"Instead, Montrose," continued Verbeena, "get out the fine comb, for
this day finds your master with more sand than soup in his hanging
gardens.

"Afterwards tie his shoes and put on his sunbonnet for Lord Tawdry is
going day-day."

"Yes, miss, thank you, miss."

"Back to the Biscuit, you understand, Montrose."

"Yes, miss; thank God, miss."

"Verbeena!"

Again Lord Tawdry clutched his pistol.

"Aw-blooey," said Verbeena. "As long as you aim it at men I don't in
the least mind. To horse, Lord Tawdry! This is my camp and you just
keep out of it, do you hear?"

As her brother rode dejectedly away, his long, black mustaches of
Spanish moss effect mingling with the turf on his charger's
ginger-colored hump, Verbeena lit a bunch of cigarettes in his honor
and let go a devilish wink at Musty Ale.

Musty's palms went up toward the heavens.

"O, Allah, witness," he chanted, his chin also pointing at the azure
African sky, "be she, he or it--SOME kid!"



CHAPTER III


When the last floating ends of Lord Tawdry's face-banners had
disappeared over the horizon, Musty Ale made bold to appear before
Verbeena, who with eyes crossed was dipping deeply into a highball of
Scotch which tended to denature the Sahara.

"Mademoiselle, it is time that we left, by Allah," he said.

"It isn't by my watch," she replied, frowning. "Also, Musty, I am no
longer to be called mademoiselle. After this mention me as Queen."

"Sultana?"

"I don't like that fruit-cracker word either, my good man. _Queen!_
And don't forget it. And don't look cross at me in your mysterious
Oriental way. You might as well get used to it. Perhaps I'm not a
queen yet but," as she filled her three slim gold cigarette cases, "I
soon will be. _Queen._ Understand?"

"%--&&&&&*% *(*)#**"*# ---- ---!!!!." muttered Musty in his native
tongue. (A darned barefaced queen in britches! May the Prophet part me
from my whiskers!)

"What, sirrah?"

"Allah witness, I said nothing."

"Keep right on doing that," said Verbeena.

Her words came in a tone of authority which added to the fact that she
accurately snapped a live fag end at his right eye, caused Musty to
sink through his jelab or Sahara overcoat.

But after he had dug himself a shell hole in the desert, he said from
deeply beneath his head wrappings:

"O, Queen, if we don't start soon we are sure to miss perhaps some of
the most select outgoing caravans. By the fringe of the Prophet--but
we surely will!"

"The noise you are now making is entirely different," commented
Verbeena.

She arose and clicked her fingers over her left shoulder, a trick she
had learned from a French officer from Alabama while trilling the
cubes. "Let's go!"

       *       *       *       *       *

At last she was out on the desert on her very own! Out on the desert
with her wild heart, her strangely stirring impulses, her uncharted
passions, the mad caprices of her swift reactions from pants to
skirts, from skirts to pants, though nothing like vice-versa had even
touched her.

Free--_free_--FREE!

Of everything but Musty Ale, sixty-two mounted Sahara Siwashes at 9
centimes a day, eight exquisitely fragrant camels, the bright,
tangible odor of garlic from the broiling meats of the camp fire and
her faithful aura of mauve fag smoke wreathing her pruned, red locks,
an aura that was kept going by the plumes which ever shot from the
wide flanges of her flaming nostrils in symbolism of the fire seething
beneath the icicles draping her ruby heart.

As a boy she was interesting.

But as a girl--Time would tell, for Time is no gentleman.

She thought of her purity and dug the spurs viciously into her
indignant horse.

She remembered Bertie Butternut without a qualm. When his arms had
been about her it had stirred no instinct in her but that to fight
back. She perfectly understood that as to love and its languors, its
high spots, its dumps, she was a mere unbaked bun.

She realized that she knew nothing of the other sex beyond the men's
underclothing advertisements.

And they had never impressed her.

She had better muscles herself than any the artists seemed able to
draw.

Indeed, were these the pictures of men?

She remembered the sums she had received from time to time to pose for
posters of young gentlemen wearing new style collars.

"Pooey!" exclaimed Verbeena. And lit her 18,462nd pill or cigarette.

But these Arabs! Ah, there was something to them! She felt that they
had something more than bridge-whist, golf and billiards under their
turbans, something more than mere hop-Scotches of the heart.

They smoked as many cigarettes as herself--nearly.

They glowered like devils and jammed their horses around and kicked
the camels about with a refreshing brutality.

They scratched themselves so fearlessly!

They breathed garlic gloriously!

And they sang--always. And always the same tune to the
_simp-simp-simp_ of their two string ukeleles with the palm twig
picks. It was beautiful to Verbeena that same, same tune, grateful to
her ear that liquid, languorous _simp-simp-simp_, an ear as
exquisitely tone deaf as that of any good, up-to-date composer.

Then suddenly black specks danced before her eyes!

Was it liver?

No!

By Jove, it was a caravan on the horizon of the jolly old Sahara!

As it finally came right up close the vim of Verbeena's interest grew
somewhat vitiated. There were twenty camels and a big bunch of
horsemen, and proximity proved that they were bathed in sunlight
alone. Several of the camels halted and knelt and a dozen figures
jounced down from the palanquins whose curtains hadn't been changed
that Spring. The figures she knew to be those of Sahara ladies.

"How about this outfit, Queen?" asked Musty Ale.

"Nope--don't care about 'em."

"Good as any other, your majesty."

"That's what I get for paying you a flat rate for this job!" cried
Verbeena fiercely, truculently. "You want to have it over as quickly
as possible. Why, that caravan is going straight back to Biscuit! You
know very well that it's a month for me in the desert or nothing. I
went all over it with you about six thousand times. Nothing under a
month will do and it will not be until we have traveled six days deep
on this old sandcarpet, Musty, you brass-faced blurb, before I'll
begin looking about for more permanent arrangements. What a ninny I
was to have paid you two dollars in advance!"

O'er the swart features of the under Shereef shot a spasm of anger.
But he dodged a cigarette butt with fine skill and masked his feelings
under glinting eyes.

"Give my compliments to that grimy-looking outfit," said Verbeena
tartly, "and let's step along."

[Illustration: MUSTY ALE, A LOW, UNSCRUPULOUS FELLOW.]

"#$%&) )$""&&&%***'!!!!" (Chesty Redhead!) murmured Musty Ale when he
was well out of range.

Suddenly a white figure, big as a circus tent and looking the same,
detached itself from the other roughriders, whirled up to Musty and
the black whiskers of this new demon parted widely showing a very
superior set of sharply pointed white fangs.

"_Hollerwoller, hippolo, jazzamarabi zop zing!_"

"I wouldn't care if you did," replied Musty promptly. "How much?"

"Eighty-six beans!" said the big feller. And before the other's eyes
he bobbed a large goatskin purse which jingled.

"Marks or francs?"

"O, my well-known Allah! Better'n 'nat! American pennies! How's that
hippolohit yer?"

"Gimme that bag! She's yours."

Musty Ale shoved the coin of treachery next to a half loaf of bread
under his sandy jelab.

As the other wheeled his magnificent charger to spur it to a violent
gallop, Musty suddenly called:

"_Hup!_" (Halt!)

"What?"

"She likes to be called 'Queen.'"

"And who is she that I--but thanks for the tip. Allah keep the fleas
off you, me lad."

"Thanks yourself," answered Musty, "although he never has yet."

But the white circus tent on the plunging black beastie was already
far away.



CHAPTER IV


Verbeena had thought when Musty Ale held back to have a talk with the
large gentleman in the white wrappings her sulky retainer was
doubtless obeying her order to tell the person who seemed to be the
Admiral Beattie of the desert ships, that in the matter of her joining
his particular caravan there would be nothing the whatsoever doing.

She was very much annoyed therefore to discover that this man in the
prominently large turban had evidently refused to take Musty's word
for it and meant to talk the matter over with her in person. It would
seem so. His black horse--Verbie could see it was no dog--was doing
about 1,59-1/2 in her direction.

There might be a whole lot that Verbeena did not know about the other
sex.

But she was fully cognizant what Arabic bargaining meant. Starting to
dicker at one in the afternoon of a perfect day in June one continued
to the following Shrove Tuesday.

They always had as much to say about a shilling purchase as Joseph
Conrad did about Lord Jim.

We who have witnessed the scene of tragic treachery against her on the
part of Musty Ale in conspiracy with the hard rider now abaft the
oasis in the rapidly diminishing offing, must tremble now for Verbeena
Mayonnaise. Although even we cannot as yet suspect the half of what is
coming to her.

And of all persons Verbeena!

So unprepared, untrained and sure to be boyishly baffled at finding
herself the object and victim of a large consignment of fiery, wild,
untamed, hectic and rrrrrrred-hot desert passion now being swiftly
shipped to her on horseback.

The sun was beating relentlessly on the roof of Verbeena's white
helmet and she did not propose to wait and let this big goof attempt
to sell her any fake rugs, bangles, beads or poor caravan
accommodations.

She gave the spurs, therefore, right heartily to her beloved steed
and he proceeded to cut down a large section of the Sahara ahead.

Let Musty and his gang follow. Unquestionably this person on his way
toward her would have sufficient Oriental subtlety to take the hint.
He would doubtless rein up his horse and save oats.

But--there was a loud crack of a whip behind her.

Verbeena was very much astonished when her noble Berb, Al Dobbin,
stopped nearly dead in his tracks, stood up on his hind legs and did
some waltz steps.

During the whirl she noticed that the big white chap was still coming
toward her.

She gave Al Dobbin the spurs again and once more he moved into a fast
gallop over the dunes.

Again the whip cracked behind her! And again! (Two cracks.)

Al Dobbin stood on his hind legs neatly and pawed gracefully.

Plainly he was bidding for a lump of sugar.

And all she could possibly have offered him was a cigarette!

Once more Verbeena spurred him to a start.

"A blooming circus creature," she gasped, "and in pursuit must be his
trainer. And where the deuce is Musty? He must have stolen this fancy
ballet horse from the husky white ulster now so rapidly approaching!
The rotter! I suspected Musty from the first but didn't care to
mention it to Tawdry. Wisht I had! Still, when one adventures,
why----"

Crack! Crack! Crack! (Three cracks.)

Immediately Al Dobbin knelt to pray.

Verbeena, not knowing the signals, smacked her helmet hard against the
desert of Sahara, matted her curls and stretched motionless, a lighted
cigarette in her hand.

One could read a symbol in its curling smoke of the fiery spirit yet
existent in the lithe, young, prone, boyish body as well as the
indubitable indication of an unbreakable habit.

But there was so little time for reading anything, although it must be
admitted that the light was excellent for even an Edison cannot vie
with that real thing which you get on the Sahara.

But to get back to Verbeena. And high time too!

For the big, brown devil had her! Right in his arms. Across his
horse! And wrapped up in his great, long white cloak. Not any too
white either.

She--already she was beginning to feel she was she--Verbeena
Mayonnaise, was caught, trapped, trussed up in the folds of that white
cloak of his, utterly helpless and like a week's wash!

It was horrible, awful, terrible and very uncomfortable.

Moreover, the humiliation of it was meticulously genuine.

And what could she do? Jiu jitsu she had but it wasn't worth a jitney
to a person in a cocoon! By the same token all her gymnasium and other
athletic perfections which had trained her fit to give Georges
Carpentier or Jacques Dempsey a stiff battle now went blah.

Additionally, this big heap Arab chief that had snared her she
knew--thrillingly knew--was hefty.

He was managing his fiery steed one-handed, beautifully, better than
any stableyard virtuoso she had ever known at 'ome.

His other arm about her was like a hoop of steel.

Or a lobster's claw.

She felt pinched. And, in truth, she was. She was in the hands of the
Shereef.

She tried to scream. But when she did so she only succeeded in eating
a section of his flowing white robe.

She tried to think. But she might as well have been her brother,
Tawdry.

She tried to smoke. And that was worst of all. Her arms were so
encumbered she couldn't get at any of her cigarette cases.

Not that she was left entirely without tobacco. The Sahara
lady-snatcher's garments rang with the odor of it.

To add to her agony, her snippy little nose smarted keenly and she
knew it must be red as a beet from sunburn. And she was helpless to
get out her powder puff.

Despite her manly training, the powder-puff habit was one which she
had always practiced in common with all the other Cambridge girls and
fellows.

Cumulatively upon these conditions of despair, she began to wonder
what the deuce this bally coot meant to do with her!

One thing certain was that he was seriously, perhaps permanently
upsetting her scheme, her plan, her idea for junketing forth by her
lonely into the desert. Such a perfectly good plan! One that would
forever end her being dependent on Lord Tawdry's luck at bridge and
forever relieve her of the necessity of getting Americans at the
foreign hotels to stake her at games of stud poker.

Ah--it had been no idle journey--no mere whimsy! It had been designed
to bring her wealth, fame, and a glory the most transcendent of her
times.

The marriage of Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks had suggested it.

For had she not the pulchritude of Mary?

And girlishness could be acquired.

And had she not the athletic prowess to cut the didoes of Doug?

Thus she could go into the movies--if she could get in--like a sort of
one-person band.

She could double in sex.

Perhaps draw two salaries of $1,500,000 a week each! One lady and one
gentleman salary.

How to get in? That was the question Verbeena had demanded of herself
to answer. And answer it she had.

She would disappear into the desert. She would pick up with some nice
caravan at a fair rate for board and mileage and stick along with it
indefinitely.

She had been careful to announce all around the Biscuit that she would
be gone exactly one month.

When the month was up and no Verbeena she could depend on the Knitting
Needle Dearies to start their jaws awagging concerning her and run
away and leave them.

The foreign correspondents would soon get going on the cable regarding
the missing young, daring, delightful, ingenuous, adventurous,
amazing, remarkable, willful, bewitching bobbed haired beauty of
Mayfair who had recklessly essayed to navigate the Sahara without a
male rudder of her own, to journey far and alone save for an escort of
wicked and lowering Arabs!

As the days passed and the mystery deepened how the columns and
columns would accumulate in the dailies and weeklies and on the timely
topics movie films! The American papers particularly would rave.

Lord Northcliffe would begin by offering a good camera to any person
finding trace of her and end by setting up a reward of 1,000,000 pun.
No question of it. Hearst would offer the pick of his newspapers to
any reporter who could rescue her.

But if any reporters got around her caravan it would be so easy to
disguise herself. She would not even have to take off her ridin'
britches. Just slip a lady jelab around her and bring one end of it up
over her nose and get by.

Or if the hue and cry got the French Government so all-fired distrait
that they ordered a ruthless search of the caravan harems, she had
only to show up in her usual ridin' pants, paste a little blackberry
jam on her lip and chin for a glossy black Oriental beard and fool 'em
all.

Perhaps it would be wise to mix camel hair with the jam.

But that would be a matter to be decided upon when the emergency
arose.

Of course, there might be no jam in the caravan commissary. But surely
there would never be a lack of gum Arabic.

And when she, Verbeena, had thus vaulted into the top skies of
notoriety, she would communicate secretly with the largest of the
movie concerns.

What would they bid to star the "mystery girl of the Sahara" in a
magnitudinous thriller with her own company of devil-riding,
thrilling, stirring, fierce, wild, startling, arousing Arabs?

She saw herself getting a flood of checks from these sources blank of
everything but signatures.

Or a procession of 2000 camels laden with the gold of the Americas if
she preferred to do business that way.

"Just name your price, girlie," would inevitably be the message.

And here was this Arab rotter grabbing her around the girdle and
taking her somewhere west of Suez!

And what for?

What was the idea?

Not till then did it occur to Verbeena that it might be because she
was a woman. Naturally, this notion filled her with astonishment and
disgust. And rage, touched most lightly with the erotic.

She got madder and madder!

Indeed, Verbeena became virtuously vibrant with a revolt virginally
volcanic. Her eyes shone virescent with hatred and the tiny blue veins
on her white forehead under the tawny clubbed curls became varicose.

Besides, she was getting kind of scared.

There was a nifty strangle hold she knew which, could she ever get
free of that tail end of his Arabian wrapper, she would love to try
out on this rough bird. Her fingers, her small, lithe, delicate,
steel-like fingers, tingled at the thought.

Even if her nose was red, she determined to try and poke it out into
the air. She would gather new strength and see what the chances were
for coming out further. Cautiously she screwed her bobbed head about
and finally, poor little snail, managed to thrust her face forward and
out of the folds that were stifling her. She opened her mouth wide.
She took in great gulps of air.

Ah, it was good!

But next she took in several deep gulps of sand as it arose from the
flying hoofs of her captor's single footer.

Ah, not so good!

She became aware of a big, glaring face above her. How terribly it
frowned!

"Duckmong, Kid, duckmong!" her captor said sternly and pushed her head
back as though she was an India rubber doll.

Such was the awful strength of the man!

And then he squeezed her to him till she feared that Bertie
Butternut's fate would be her own. She felt crushed to the consistency
of malted milk.

Who could he be, this demon? Certainly nothing less than the local
Zabysko of Biscuit. And it was marvelous the way he managed at the
same time his great, big horse and herself as if she were the smallest
pony of a ballet.

She didn't faint. You'd never catch Verbeena Mayonnaise doing that.
But really she felt an awful lot like it!

He changed her position again. This time he hung her head down.

She looked up into his eyes. (There was no help for it.) The monster
laughed at her--laughed!

He was now, she saw, not only driving the horse with one hand and
holding her upside down with the other, but had inserted a cigarette
into an eighteen-inch amber holder clinched in his teeth.

And then, just to show her his class, he bent low until the end of his
cigarette touched the tip of her fiery little sunburned nose, lighted
the cigarette and all over again he laughed at her.

"You ----, ----!" she cried to him with a rush of words Brother Tawdry
himself, could not have excelled.

"By Allah!" he smiled back at her, "what a game little divvle!"

Not being able to get a look at her wrist watch, Verbeena then lost
all sense of time. She knew only that the sun was still up and burning
her nose ingloriously. But she would resist to the last pulsation of
her strong, young heart this desert creature of the strangely, burning
passionate orbs. They were rather nice eyes but, he would find
resistance to the last recalcitrant tissue of her turbulent nature.

He might use her as a cigar lighter.

But just let him try anything else and----



CHAPTER V


The mad, passionate ride was over about supper-time.

The next thing Verbeena's intelligence became immersed in she was
standing within a big tent brilliantly lighted by respectable old
candles inside of two hanging lamps.

But she didn't have much chance to look over these things. They hung
too high.

What was solely in her mind, to faithfully reproduce its own process
accurately was the thought:

"Where's that sapadillo that brought me here?"

Right in front of her was he standing and she got a good, unfurtive
look at him. Sure enough he was as big as he felt when he had her
grabbed to him on horseback.

The thing that struck her immediately, stirred her curiously amidst
her emotions of hitherto unknown fear and would there be a place in
the tent to wash-up properly, was that his hair didn't match. His
whiskers were black, his face was really red, not brown as she saw
because he had brushed some of the dust off, whilst his head hair was
some kind of color or other.

Just what she couldn't tell.

It wasn't red and it wasn't yellow.

Was it as of the cornflower in tassel?

She caught her breath. This was no time to become romantic. She was an
icicle, she told herself, and must continue to recall that fact.

He was looking at her with burning eyes. No wonder. Her own were
burning as savagely as her nose. The sand does it.

But besides he had a curiously mad and giddy gaze.

It was as if he'd caught her in bathing with her clothes on a hickory
limb. And wouldn't have the gentlemanliness, the decency to go away.

She liked it not a little bit and was so nervous she didn't know
whether to throw off her coat and start for him or button it up. She
buttoned it up. She wondered why. But, of course, it was the way he
was looking at her and kept looking at her. She wished she had more
buttons on her coat. And that her clothing generally was fastened more
firmly. His malevolent eyes had such a dismantling expression.

Certainly the burly wretch wasn't showing any false smoke-stacks.

She could see he meant business.

And such a business!

Verbeena steadied herself on a cigarette.

"Frapjous ass!" she said yet well-knowing that her old boyish
nonchalance had gone fazizz. "Who are you?"

"I am----"

Ah, the organ tones of his voice! A little gritty on account of the
desert sands perhaps, but deep, thrilling, throbbing. It tickled the
very roots of her clubbed curls.

Verbeena vibrated.

"I am the Sheik Amut Ben Butler!"

The name conveyed nothing to her.

She had never heard of Ben Butler.

He turned the full force of his fifty-two candle power passionut
glance upon her.

"The notion of this game is," he said in his deep, devilish voice,
"'Give and Take.' You give or I take!"

Verbeena immediately gave a shriek!

And she'd never done anything like that before in her life!

"Did you hear that?" she demanded tensely.

"And that!" and shrieked again.

"That's what you look like to me! A Shriek, Amut Ben Butler--it's what
you are too! And a pretty loud and silly one!

"You let me right out of here! When my big brother hears of this,
he'll be out this way and kick the fol de rols out of you! That's
what'll happen. The nerve of you with your banana-skinned face and
black licorice whiskers! Stand back, miscreant, I would pass!"

"May Allah bust eggs on my turban!" hissed the Sheik Amut Ben Butler,
"but this is a saucy baggage!"

With that he threw off his magnificent, flowing white cloak and he
hopped her.

He had her in a mad, palpitant chancery but Verbeena put up some great
infighting. She gave it to him good--right and left into the
_kish-kish_ (ringside and Yiddish for breadbasket) and now and again
sought the point of the chin with a left uppercut that had hitherto
always served her well. It had beautifully in that fight with the
policeman.

But in all the many other bouts in which Verbeena had been engaged,
kissing was strictly foul. It was sometimes permitted at the
ringsides, she had observed, at the end of a fight, but never in the
mix-ups.

Unsportsmanlike brute!

For as she let go a wild, desperate uppercut it shot harmlessly past
an adroitly lowered chin and the next instant he had smacked her full
upon the mouth.

A terrific, scorching smack!

It knocked Verbeena wuffy.

She could almost hear a referee, a misty, intangible wraith-like
referee, giving her the full count, for the hot mouth pressed against
hers was superlatively soporific, nicotinically, garliciously
narcotic.

"First fall!" grinned the Sheik Amut Ben Butler the while he chucked
the giddy girl through some heavy curtains upon a stack of soft
yellow, pink, red (dark and light) gold, silver green and mauve
cushions.

Yet Verbeena, remember, had verve!

Besides, she well knew the ha-ha the world ever handed a fallen champ
or lady who claimed to have been drugged.

Realizing she was up against a losing fight, yet she arose for more
trouble. Yep, up she came defiant if saggy. Nobody had ever put her in
such a bait before! She would go on with it--on--on--on with it!

She'd get him yet!

Yet only too well she knew that one more fragrant kiss like that which
she had just put over and she must go whiff-whaff.

It had been a soul-numbing smack. And she felt her knees knockier than
she ever had known them.

Also she seemed to have had just then a glimpse of her moral stamina
and the vision was as of the Leaning Tower of Pisa in a high wind.

Her face ached, her left ear ached and more awfully than either her
peculiar temperament ached.

Her face showed pain in every lineament.

"I ask you," said the Sheik Amut in his slow, awful drawl, twirling
the tassel of his magenta sash, "what's the idea of kicking up all
this shindy? Aw--take off your necktie! Do you expect me to be your
valet as well as lover?"

"You----" she began in crashing opposition to any tomfoolery of a
dark, questionable nature.

"_Spaghetti!_" snapped the Sheik.

She observed that he looked over her shoulder. She turned. She saw
then a little fat man behind her just as he was answering reverently:

"Aye--aye, Monseigneur!"

"The----," the Sheik nodded fiercely at the little man.

She hadn't a chance. She knew it.

She saw the arm of Spaghetti only as it was descending. The hand held
a canvas jacket of the size and shapely proportions of a corpulent
bologna. And it was stuffed with Sahara.

"See here!" cried Verbeena. "This is rotten. It's not cricket. I----"

"Not cricket perhaps, but quite clubby," said Amut Ben Butler with his
brutal smile.

The blow fell.

Verbeena vertigoed.



CHAPTER VI


When Verbeena came to she was the only one present. Outside she could
hear the Sheik's horses whinnying among their oats and the incessant
chaffing of his men. They swarmed outside there. And inside were other
swarms. These were of flies and sandfleas. She was more or less
grateful to them. They kept her for some little time from thinking of
anything else.

But, of course, eventually she had to begin to draw a few conclusions.
The design of these proved cubistic and the coloring all to the
palpitant pink, Gaugin green and yammering yellow.

She sought pushing herself around on the divan trying to get away from
herself, but always returned.

Finally she sat up with her chin between her knees and her arms around
her ears in a posture known to her blithesome boyish days as the
"caterpillar crouch."

But by no mental arrangement could she devise for herself a dittology
regarding the cataclysmic cropper attendant upon her career and felt
herself, therefore, thoroughly unmanned as well as fatally deladyized.

She knew she'd never be able to look anybody in the face again.
Especially a camel. Camels always had such nasty, disdainful
expressions.

From thought of camels she passed to that of Lady Speedway, and this
caused Verbeena to do a full pinwheel on the cushions.

If this affair ever got out wouldn't it just be pickled walnuts for
old putty-faced, jabberwocking Speedway! O God! What a position she
was placed in! O, gosh!

She gave one of her old time boyish leaps from the couch and seized
the small object she saw on a nearby tabaret.

The object was the stump of a cigarette--a pretty long one. Thank
heavens, indeed, that it hadn't burned itself to naught in the night!

She remembered sticking it down there when she began the first round
of her terrific battle with Amut Ben Butler. She remembered, too,
that it had been her last fag.

But fate had been good to her.

Apparently the ciggy had gone out the same time she did.

She scuffled her britches for a match. She lighted up. She took a deep
inhale. It was tonic. She filled her lungs again.

A "V" now formed between her black eyebrows.

Verbeena was coming back!

She hopped into her pants. She began to stir about looking for other
things to put on. Just then a swarthy, black-haired young creature, a
slip of a girl about six feet tall, entered.

"Look here----" began Verbeena.

"Ay bane Hulda, the maid," said this little Arab girl. "You could have
a wash for yourself back of that curtain over there. It's a bath in
it. And your trunks bane come."

"Three cheers for both those things at least," murmured Verbeena. And
soon she had tossed her clothes back through the curtain and was
splashing about in her usual vigorous fashion.

When a little later she thrust her head through the curtain she saw
that Hulda had neatly arranged her riding britches and jacket, her
military brushes and her cigarette cases out upon the divan and was
digging deep in one of the satchels that was part of Verbeena's
luggage regarding which it would seem Sheik Amut Ben Butler must have
sent a retrieving party to grab it back from Musty Ale.

"What are you doing in that satchel?" asked Verbeena sharply.

"Ay bane looking for your razor, kiddo," said Hulda deferentially.

Verbeena laughed bitterly.

"My girl," she said, "don't you know there's no safety in this awful
place?"

By this time Hulda had a trunk open. It contained the pretty dresses
Verbeena had brought along for girlish evenings on the Sahara. Girlish
evenings! She choked back a sob.

Aw, gee! Why couldn't she have been let alone to swagger about always
in her cute boyish britches!

Hulda looked again and studied Miss Mayonnaise's head and shoulders as
they stuck before the curtain.

She stared more closely.

"Oho," cried Hulda, "Allah bane knock me dead for a dumbkopf! I git it
now what is it you is. Wait--I git a Turkish towel--we got lots of
'em, we have--and I give you a Swedish massage."

"Hulda, my desert child, I thank you," said Verbeena gratefully.

By the way, all this time they had been talking French as they did
later when Hulda was arranging Verbeena's clothing anew.

[Illustration: HULDA, AN AFRICAN MAID.]

She looked up at her mistress, her big black Swedish eyes puzzled as
she asked:

"_Homme_ or _femme_ this morning?"

"_Homme_," said Verbeena decidedly, "excepting that after I've got my
long boots on and everything, you can go into that third trunk to the
right and pass me a hatpin."

"There!" said Verbeena stamping into one boot heartily. "There," said
she stamping into the other. "Now, Hulda the hatpin."

She saw that Hulda watched her suspiciously as she handed up the
weapon.

"That will be all," said Verbeena.

But Hulda held on.

"Out you go," said the proud captive brusquely.

"But----" Hulda still watched to see what disposition Verbeena meant
to make of the hatpin.

"Off with you," repeated Verbeena. "What? Now, then, will you go!"

The distrait girl used the hatpin lavishly on Hulda.

"Yumping Yiminy Allah!" shrieked the Arab girl and hit the desert with
abandon.

Verbeena was rummaging her luggage for cigarettes when a soft voice
sounded behind her:

"Madame is doubtless ready for lunch?"

The voice was pleasant, indeed, operatic and even before she turned to
face him Verbeena knew she was about to get her second view of the
villain, Spaghetti.

"Don't you call me Madame," she said fiercely, "you cowardly sandbag
specialist. Don't you call me anything less than Sheika Verbeena.
There's going to be a wedding around here as soon as I lay my hands on
that unprincipled hoo-hoo of a Sheik of yours. And don't you forget
it."

With lithe, strong fingers she proceeded to put a Grecian bend in
Spaghetti's Roman nose.

"Do you hear?"

She followed up with a little hatpin treatment while the faithful
fellow let forth a coloraturo lyrico outbursto for the intervention of
from twelve to fifteen hundred saints.

"Hop about and get me about fifty boxes of cigarettes, one hundred
each, long, fat ones, do you hear? What's that? Remember, once for
all, Spaghetti, I want none of your sauce."

Outside the tent Spaghetti kissed his fingers with a fierce smack,
made a noise like a buzz saw through his teeth while drawing a
forefinger across his throat.

It was the high sign that in matters of terrible vengeance the Black
Hand never muffs.

"Gott in Himmel!" he snarled under his breath. "Joost wait teel da
padrone, da boss, de beega da fel' geet back! You catcha sometang. See
like maybe you, sapristi, don't!"

Despite his feelings, however, he hot-footed a return with the
cigarettes and it was to be noticed that when he bowed low and handed
them to her he said:

"Here, Queen."

Well aware was he that he would remember that hatpin at meals for days
to come and, expert chef that he was, he regarded with horror the idea
of a future in which he would figure as Spaghetti enbrochette.

But--aha! let the big fellow handle her! The padrone, the grand demon,
him, the goldo fellow, Monseigneur, he'd mighty quick show her who was
the real frito misto of that establishment!

Though why in the world the boss wanted to dally with a _donna_ that
looked and acted more like _wallyo_, presented a mystery Spaghetti
sadly admitted to himself was too much for him to un-ravioli. So he
stirred himself in her behalf for the nonce and fetched her some _cous
cous_ into which he let go the red pepper with a lavish, fine Italian
hand.

For if she strangled to death he could always pretend he had got mixed
and thought it was the cinnamon.



CHAPTER VII


What Spaghetti was wishing for Verbeena was wondering concerning.
Whereabouts now was this bold devil, Amut? And when would he be home?
To be sure, Spaghetti had said, she sort of remembered, that the Sheik
would be home for dinner and that he ate at eight. But he might come
in any old time and surprise her. For, cogently considered, wouldn't
that be just like him? That he was a nasty feller, how could she doubt
it? Of the Machiavellian character of the black-whiskered, tow-headed
mazib hadn't she right then sufficient evidence to swing any jury?

"Boo-hoo, Boo-hoo!" sobbed Verbeena entirely in the feminine gender.

But six or seven cigarettes, the knowledge of the hatpin stick beneath
the left breast of her Norfolk jacket with the right hand fully
informed about it and something else that she had up her sleeve (I
can't tell you yet--no, really, honest, I can't, for it wouldn't be
fair to Verbeena--might give her away in a critical moment) something
else that she had up her sleeve reassured her mightily.

And if I could only tell you what she was thinking about doing just
then! "Durn it!" your heart would surely go out to the cute bantam!
Gaw, bless her!

Remembering as well that Britains never shall be slaves!

And that, moreover, if you are not that kind of a girl and are truly
indignant why then, my dear, your ship of Fate gathers no moral
barnacles.

Although, of course, in the matter of just what kind of a girl
Verbeena was, if any, a palpable ambiguousness veers to the verge of
anguish.

But while this juncture is pending in which passion is scheduled to
bridle and burst into tongues of flame high as a gas tank in eruption,
gave Verbeena a chance.

That is to look around Sheik Amut Ben Butler's wicked desert diggin's.

Huh--not that they were so much!

Some Oriental hangings showed up as if they were embroiderd by
blacksmiths and colored by accident and chewed by rats.

There were two silver inlaid Moorish stools that would hold you if you
were careful. There was a fine-looking, hand-carved chest, big and
impressive, that Verbeena peeked into thinking it would reveal
perhaps, wondrous stores of Bagdad lace curtains or--heaven alone
could tell!--perhaps the corpse of his former victim!

She opened it and then shut it in a hurry. A person may fairly be
curious. But not about somebody else's old shoes.

However, a splendid collection of ivory and silver and ivory and gold
and ivory and brass and ivory and tin and ivory and goodness-knew-what
cigarette cases, hit Verbeena right in the eye. She selected about
sixteen she thought she might like and put them aside in one of her
trunks to be called for later.

Should Amut miss 'em.

Although according to her designs, even if he did--even if he did----

Excuse me, for holding off a bit longer. No fault of the author truly.

He's coming is Amut. But you see he is doing a Sheridan on a flashing
steed and is as yet several miles away. Two at least.

Just let him gallop a few minutes because Verbeena has started
examining his book case and that if anything should tell her what kind
of a bibliophile, Francophile or Swissoup this strong-armed
philanderer was.

It was a surprise to Verbeena to find there this case of books for she
had always thought that all to be expected of the Sahara was volumes
of dates.

However, she stood corrected so she scanned the titles. At the very
first she drew back with a shudder having read: "Poems of Passion" by
Ring Lardner.

Then "The Children's Hour" by Ghee de Maupassant.

Pshaw, she'd read that!

Kraft-Ebing also was old stuff.

And she passed over without interest a corpulent tome entitled "Der
Vaw; Vhy Ve Dit Id Bad" by Ludendorff.

Then she came upon "Manly Beauty, Its Dangers and Temptations," by
Irvin Cobb and Paul Swan.

Two other titles, however, fascinated her. One was "Florinda of the
Furnished Rooms" by Robert W. Chalmers, and the other "Maurice of the
Monkey Glands" by Elinor Flynn in collaboration with the author of
"Arzan of the Apes."

"Eeny, meeny, minee, mo--" began Verbeena when another title clattered
against her vision. "The Passion Worm of the Sahara, an Account of its
Discovery," by Robert S. Hitchings.

At first she derived about ten degrees of comfort from the discovery
that Amut wasn't exactly a raw native, that he was probably half-baked
at least. She felt that it would be logically safe to presuppose that
she was mixed up with a king of the desert, who might be found to be
superficially coated with a veneer of civilization that was tenuous.

And yet dared she find comfort in that? Might it not make him the more
horrible, sinister, intolerable, cheekier and fresher than ever,
this desert devil in whom passion dictated the methods of a
chiropractitioner?

"O, hum!" screamed the distrait and fearful Verbeena doing a backfall
among the cushions.

There was one good thing she could say for him anyway--his cigarettes
were smokable. They were, she had seen by the boxes, of the famous
brand of Bull Camel.

Of one thing she was convinced. There would be no sandbagging this
evening.

[Illustration: SPAGHETTI.]

She had reduced Spaghetti to where she had only to show him the hat
pin and he would run right out and sit in the sand. She had made him
produce the sand-bag too, had ripped it open and poured the contents
back into the desert.

Also she had asked Spaghetti numerous questions about the Sheik Amut
and as far as she could make out his chief business was that of a
breeder, trainer and trapper of horses of a high-class character.

Nothing in the trucking way but mostly for society and circus uses.
The business of _femme_-_snatching_, her informant had assured her,
was totally new to him.

Did he have a harem?

No, Spaghetti thought not. It was very hard to keep one these days.
Especially when your business had you out on the desert running an
ambling horse farm. You were so likely to return to Biscuit or Orange
or Ammonia and find the harem had run out on you, bobbed its hair and
got jobs as manicure girls in Constantinople.

"That will be all," then had remarked Verbeena and had further taken a
tuck in Amut's devoted servant by saying:

"It is absurd; don't you think, for you to call yourself Spaghetti?
You're much too fat. Macaroni would be infinitely more suitable."

"Aw, Queena Verbeena!" protested Spaghetti.

"That will do. You may go, Mac."

He had backed out as becomes one departing from royalty and a hat pin.

Hulda she had entirely won over during the afternoon. She had given
the little six-foot thing one of her old evening gowns, yet a modest
garment withal, hanging well below Hulda's shoulder blades.

Dependably Verbeena was to be suspected of having something other than
sawdust under those clubbed curls of hers!

She was just wondering if she could go so far as to appoint Hulda
policewoman of the tent and entrust her with a sand-club when there
came loud yells without of "Hip hoy, hip hoy, hip, hip, hip! Allah,
Allah, Allah! AMUT!"

Three more "Allahs" were being heartily given still yet without when
the Sheik Amut Ben Butler strode haughtily into the tent, threw off
his creamy cloak and with a careless motion tossed his bejeweled
classy turban among the old gold and silver cushions, thus displaying
his shock of Sahara colored hair above his stick licorice black chin
muff.

Verbeena savagely and swiftly lighted nine cigarettes and faced him
peagreen with pyromania.

He touched off a cigarette himself.

"I hope Spaghetti didn't lay down on his job," said the Sheik. "Do you
know what we're going to have for dinner?"

He pushed Verbeena out of the way and stretched himself on the divan.

His cold manner was like a dash of water of the same temperature
against her face. Verbeena broke into a watery perspiration, her eyes
got watery with rage and her mouth watered to bite him the more so
that she could see, despite the nonchalant manner in which he was
looking at her, he was yet significantly appraising this outburst as a
valuable asset on any desert.

His presence was an offense and she would concede no amelioration of
it due to the nature of his occupation among horses. She wished with
passionate fierceness that she could dye his hair to match his
whiskers or his whiskers to match his hair. And the dreadful, cool way
he was lying there staring at her, the princely thing! My--such airs!

"You seem to think everything's nicely settled," said Verbeena icily.
"But when King and Lloyd George hear of this, they'll put such a flea
in the ear of the French Government, they'll be after you with a
hoop-la and a full set of gendarmerie armed with guillotines!"

"A pea for the French Government! And holler-woller for the Georges,
King and Lloyd."

"You seem very confident of immunity."

[Illustration: SHEIK AMUT BEN BUTLER, THE TERROR OF THE SANDS.]

"Of a certainty," said the Sheik. "I'm depending on Queen Mary. She's
an awful stiff one for the proprieties, you know, and when she hears
the way you defied conventions and went journeying out into the desert
without so much as a chaperon, if I know Mary, she'll say it served
you jolly well right. Anyway, what's one of those countries you speak
of got to do with it?"

He gave her the point of a finger--slightly cigarette stained, but
very stern.

"You forget, hussy,--I am the Sheik Amut Ben Butler. I'm the Grand
Monarch, the Monseigneur of this entire sand-patch--put that in a
cigarette paper and smoke it!

"There's another Sheik in these parts, one Abraham O'Mara who goes
around as if he cuts some didoes until he hears I'm in the
neighborhood and then, Allah behold him bolt for his simoon cellar!

"Besides, he'll soon be going back to Ireland or Palestine now and
I'll be taking over all his sandlots as well. So you can see for
yourself what a grass-cutter I am.

"Don't stand there shaking your sassy red curls at me or I'll get up
to you, do you understand?"

Verbeena gulped grandiloquently.

The Sheik sneered at her violently.

"See here," he said, "you'd have made a fine chorus boy but it was not
as a chorus boy or any other kind I saw you in Biscuit. So shake those
Reginald fixings and get yourself into something with fancy trimmings,
something decolleté and dashy. I'm surprised to find you so prone to
forget that you are a lady."

"In Biscuit--in Biscuit? You saw me in Biscuit, you underbred loafer?"
gasped Verbeena.

"That cat you chased off the balcony fell on a brand new, very natty
turban I was wearing as I passed the hotel."

"It was then that I first saw you, cutey! And when I heard you were
going to make a desert hike alone--well, here you are, little one,
_mon chit_, hale and hearty if a bit high-strung, my sweet ukelele."

"Love--love! You speak of love! 'Twas for a ransom you rifled me of my
liberty and what not, you big, hulking rotter!"

He regarded her scornfully.

"As a man who gave up eighty-six cents American cash to Musty Ale for
your possession--and this I did--shall you accuse me of kidnapping you
for ransom?"

"Then why--why--O, gosh, if only your hair and whiskers matched! But I
know Spaghetti lied."

"'Bout what?"

"He said he didn't know of your ever having any other girl but me."

"Well, naturally," the Sheik frowned dangerously, "Spaghetti knows
better than to do any gossipin' while I'm gone. Still it is true,
Verbie, that you are the first one I have ever taken caravaning. As
for the others----"

"The others! O, golly, golly me!" she sobbed. "Listen to him--the way
he says it--the others--the others! Just like that!"

"Why, of course," he said with a light insouciance that was
paramountedly the pinnacle of intense impropriety. "Let's see--there
have been Ayah and Beeyah, Ceeyah and Deeyah, Eeyah, Effa, Geeyah,
Aicha, Aihyah, Jayah, Kayah, Ella, Emma, Ennapeayah, Queahra, Essatee,
Dubla, Exa, little Whyzee and," the Sheik Amut sent a thin stream of
supercilious, insolent cigarette smoke at the trembling Verbeena, "so
forth. But you notice there was a 'V' missing from the collection."

"And so you----"

"Partly--partly. But there was another, by Allah, a deeper reason."

"What?"

He gave her a look that was awful sneery.

"That's something I'm keeping under my turban just now, Verbie. The
way you go 'round here asking questions you'd think we were really
married you know."

"And are we not to be?"

"Har-har!" laughed the Sheik Amut Ben Butler.

His manner of laughter was ingrainedly and corruscatedly ironic.

"Har-har!" he laughed anew.

Evidently without even so much of the savor of intention that might
take a favorable skid in the direction of the morganatic!

Again with flaring teeth--two touched with gold--he laughed:

"_Har-Har!_"



CHAPTER VIII


Never was any girl in all her life so grateful for a good, stiff
boyish training as in that moment found herself Verbeena Mayonnaise!

She thought of all the swimmin', rowin', ridin', boxin', runnin',
fightin', wrestlin' she had done in the past with exultation. She even
conjured up the long, sad face of Lord Tawdry with its sable curtains
and experienced a wave of gratitude. In the nomenclature of Fate she
felt that at this moment she had come Seven. Had not her life been one
long, mystically symmetrical training for such a situation, such an
emergency as this?

So he sat there lawffing at her, did he? He sat there making nasty
eyes at her expecting her to quiescently quiver--that soon he would
have her where he would be feeding her cigarettes from his hand.

She'd show this Shreik Amut with the molasses taffy hair and licorice
whiskers a thing or two!

[Illustration: THE BIG SCENE IN WHICH VERBEENA WITH SPURS AND HATPIN
TRIUMPHS OVER THE AWFUL SHEIK.]

Yes, and three and four and five!

Perhaps six.

Seven, eight, nine and ten!

And that counts "Out!"

"_Allah, O, Allah., HEY, Allah!_" suddenly shrieked Amut Ben Butler.
"_What in the name of the howling hoptoads of Heligoland is--is--OW!_"

You will recall I hope there was hereinbefore mentioned that Verbeena
had something up her sleeve? Well, I really wasn't in a position for
Verbeena's sake to give the real information then. As a matter of fact
she had it in one of the patch pockets of her dashing little riding
jacket. It was the _cous cous_ that had been so overloaded with red
pepper by the vengeful Spaghetti. She hadn't eaten a speck of it.
She'd saved it all for Amut.

When he would have staggered blindly up from the cushions she was on
him with a whirlwind of left and right hand hooks. Then came jabs,
swings, swats, wallops, biffs and bangs! And hammerlocks, half
Nelsons, strangle and toe-holds! This way and that!

All Tawd and the other fellows had ever taught her she was using. She
wouldn't leave enough of him to crawl through a rat-hole.

A vamp of violence and vengeance working at top form was then Verbeena
Mayonnaise!

"Spaghetti!" squealed the Sheik Amut ardently.

His faithful servant's pallid face appeared in the flapway.

Only to see his august, beloved chieftain on all fours with Verbeena
just mounting his back.

"O, momma! O, polpetteenies!" gasped Spaghetti.

"You keep out of this, Mac, or you'll get yours!" warned the fightin'
flapper with flashing eyes which shone from her face.

"Sapristi, Queena Verbeena! Escusa! I come only to maka aska what you
lika for eata? What da nica, sweeta lady she lika for deener, eh?"

"_Duck!_" said Verbeena.

Silently, swiftly the perfect servant withdrew.

The while Verbeena had not for an instant paused in massaging Sheik
Amut. She was all dressed, you remember, for riding and when she got
on the back of the once proud devil of the desert she gave him the
spurs.

And then the hat-pin.

His screams to Allah could have been heard in Mecca. His wild horses
strained at their tethers, neighing piteously at the frightful cries
arising from the canvas abbatoir that had once been the happy bachelor
apartments of the Sheik Amut Ben Butler.

The humps of the camels grew pale with fright and misery.

The swash-buckling horde of Amut's men, after getting what strings of
information they could from the gasping Spaghetti, took to the palm
trees from whence they tried to make it plain to Allah that their
beloved master had gone up against a _sheitana_, which the same is a
lady devil of the first water, and that really something should be
done to save him but that nothing--nothing short of heaven could
really avail.

Meanwhile, the proud Verbeena just roweled that lofty, haughty boy to
rags.

And ever, ever, ever, ever, always the hatpin! The more he reared to
plunge the fairer the mark.

Truly now had he become what first she had called him--a Shriek. But
as not less than a thousand shrieks sounded the plentifully punctured
passionut of the Sahara!

Besides ordinary damage his proud soul goosefleshed with horror.

His hauteur became hiatic.

And yet--and yet how wonderful she was!

_What a marvelously active Verbie!_

He felt the stirrings in his heart of a love, ponderose, grandiose,
glamorous, stupendous!

It was indeed very dominant in his veins just about the time she
slammed him back on the cushions and slapped his face for him good.

Her vibrant tones in spite of the inner cries of protest of his
desiccated manhood he found adorable as to him then she said:

"You multi-colored, flashy, hieroglyphic son of a spavined grandsire,
you stalking, frowning, sneering, swaggering imitation of something
that is which amounts to something, you that are nothing whatsoever at
all! Rotter, bounder, boob--you blurb, blip, you--don't you dare
to answer me back or I'll set fire to your whiskers, you
flea-bitten--why, what in the world's happened to 'em? Amut, where's
your whiskers?"

"Over there on the floor, back of you, my Queen," said the Sheik in
strange, shivered accents due to swollen lips.

"I don't seem to remember pulling them out."

"O, I'm quite sure you didn't. You see----"

"Good God," said Verbeena, "more treachery! Even his whiskers are
false!

"Tosh--I might have known--Lillian Russell top hair and Trotsky chin
trimmings!

"What was the idea of this face screen anyway? So's I wouldn't be able
to identify you I suppose after you'd squeezed me dry and threw me
over at Orange with all the rest of your amorous alphabet? Was that
it, hey?"

"No, by Allah, no," he sobbed, his haughty head tumbled among the
silver, black, green, blue, pink and twilight yellow cushions.

She drew forth the hatpin which is so much deadlier than the scarfpin
of the species.

"I swear! No--no, Queenie, no!"

"Then why the Hawkshaws?"

"Allah defend me--I cannot tell you--not if you kill me, my sweet wand
of affliction!"

"I don't know what I'll do later," said Verbeena. "But anyway, I'm
going to make you marry me first.

"Mac!" she called. "Hulda!"

They came humbly.

"Listen to this, both of you!"

"Yea, O Queen," they answered.

"Sheik Amut Ben Butler, you say you are king of this tail-end of the
desert?"

"With your kind permission, Verbeena, the First."

"And Parliament and everything?"

"Yes'm."

"Well, Amut, old thing, right now you are in session. Pass a common
law."

"I--I----"

"Stupid--like they have in America. A common law for marriage. If a
man and woman agree to live together as husband and wife--that settles
it. It goes, hook, line, sinker and breakfast cereals. But it is made
all the more binding when there is a written agreement between them.

"All in favor," she said with her eyes firmly on the passion-purged
orbs of Amut, the non-abductor, "will say 'Aye!'"

"Aye!" said the Sheik Amut Ben Butler in a loud, firm voice.

But biting the while a quivering underlip, he soon burst into tears.

Immediately Verbeena whipped out a paper from the breast of her
Norfolk jacket and laid it before him. (That girl had just thought of
everything! She even had a fountain pen right ready for him!)

"Sign," she said simply.

The red pepper wasn't all out his eyes by any means, but the broken,
quivering creature was able to read:

     "I, Sheik Amut Ben Butler of Oasis No. 4 Sahara, and I,
     Verbeena Mayonnaise of London and lots of other places, on this
     day do take each other unto each other as man and wife, the
     party of the first part and the party of the second agreeing
     not to part unless through the intervention of an undertaker or
     a divorce judge in which latter case alimony to the tune of
     fifty horses, ten camels and seventeen tons of dates a month
     shall be promptly and persistently paid unto the party of the
     second part together with fifty-fifty on the proceeds of any
     caravan holdups hereinafter possibly to occur."

"You will see that it's dated yesterday," said Verbeena, "but that's
only a technicality."

The Sheik Amut signed. She signed. Spaghetti signed. Hulda hurled her
mark on the document.

"There," said Verbeena, "that's that! I'd like to see Lady Speedway
open her ole fish-mouth when our caravan pulls into Biscuit again,
hey, Amut?"

"Har-har-har!" exclaimed the Sheik with well-timed, impromptu
heartiness.

"Spaghetti," next said Verbeena, "you can serve dinner now. And go
light on the use of the Italian national flower in your cooking or
you'll hear from me.

"Hulda, rip down that bunch of moth-eaten hangings. They're an
eyesore. I'll get some decent chintz curtains as soon as we get to
town. And pick up all those revolvers and daggers and such truck and
throw them into the store tent."

She turned again to the Sheik.

"You'll have to get up and get out early to-morrow, Mutty, dear,
because I shall simply have to start housecleaning first thing in the
morning."

"As Allah wills, my love."

"Nonsense. I'm sick of this stuff of putting everything up to Allah.
You'll just get up and do it on your own account, do you hear?"

"You betcher," said Sheik Amut Ben Butler right on the dot.

       *       *       *       *       *

"May I have another cigarette, Verbie?" came the honeyed accents of
the Sheik Amut as, dinner finished, coffee was being served.

"Just one. Too much smoking will affect the steadiness of your hand in
horse-training. I must look into the condition of the herd myself
to-morrow."

"Yes, do," he assented. "I'm afraid I've been pretty slack but you
know how a bachelor is--sporting around a good deal, he is likely to
forget business."

She reached for her handbag and got out a tin of candied violet
leaves.

She fed him about ten which he chewed as delicately as he might--much
more delicately, Verbeena noticed, than the camels chewed gum.

Verbeena was pleased.

"Under the extraordinary circumstances," she finally stated, "and the
legal steps having been duly taken and perfected, there is not in so
far as I can see, any valid reason why marital relations may not with
perfect propriety eventuate."

"Allah, oh, Allah!" sobbed the Sheik softly beating his turban
profusely.



CHAPTER IX


"A month. A little more than a month! Thirty-one days to be exact! O,
Allah, it seems a life time!" sobbed the Sheik Amut Ben Butler. "A
month since I grabbed her hot off the Biscuit! Would that then I had
developed butter fingers! And yet!"

He buried his face deep in the cushions and ate at them. He didn't cry
out. It wouldn't have done the least good.

Nobody would have answered. His horses, camels and men were all scared
positively puerile and near to death of Verbeena. Whenever they saw
her coming they hurried like the deuce in every other direction.

And yet!

Hypothetically considered, the situation was not extraneously
alarming. But otherwise it was vicariously vazink.

The Sheik tossed and tossed around and around.

She was certainly the hottest penny he'd ever picked up in his life,
this little red-head.

"The first thing you know," he told himself, "you'll be falling in
love with this athletic young squidge. And then won't you be ashamed
of yourself!"

Because if he did really he should.

The way she bossed him!

Dawn couldn't begin on the desert without the Sheik Amut being turned
out with a slim cup of coffee to break horses. Or direct the currying
of camels. And camels require infinite currying. If you want to live
around the same oasis with them it has long been decided that this is
quite essential.

And in all his former experiences he had never known that a camel
could laugh. But now he knew they all did whenever he passed by.

Besides he was losing money, for in breaking horses he'd acquired a
habit of killing them while thinking of Verbeena.

And yet!

O, Allah, she had such a fascinating way of displaying romantic
womanhood when he most expected the hatpin!

But still he knew his men were beginning to call him "Tame Turban" and
"Shakes" instead of Sheik.

The incumbrance of their pitying glances was getting his cosmic
lizard.

He never, these days, slung on his flowing, dashing, romantic white
cloak without feeling like a whipped cream.

Conjurically he considered himself a storm-tossed palm branch
hopelessly missing its dates.

He didn't have a pillow he felt he had a right to pile on.

He'd been in the habit of sprawling around on his cushions whenever he
blamed felt like it. But not so no more! Verbeena could become so
exceedingly vituperish and so conspicuously arousing. So different was
she, he considered, than varinol.

Hashish had given him some relief but his stock of that was gone and
Verbeena hadn't.

The way she wound Spaghetti around her little finger was utterly
farnicaceous. And Hulda was eating out of the hollow of her cute,
steel-like fingers.

He could only draw comfort from knowing that he and Verbeena had the
cigarette habit intolerably.

"Shades of memory, O, Allah, those days when I was cock of the walk!"

He squirmed bitterly to recall the fact.

He fumbled about among the pillows well-knowing that not a tail
feather remained. In plain words, of his masculine dominance he
realized he was hirsutically tweezered.

There was nothing left for him to Sheik but escape.

Verbeena, he saw, was fast asleep and for this he gave several still,
small praises unto Allah.

There among the cushions he kicked himself softly for never having
thought things clearly out before.

But now--aha! His horse, Sunstroke, would stand by him! That is to say
run with him as he must if it was to do any good. And pretty fast,
too, he conjectured, Sunstroke must.

Sheik Amut Ben Butler made just about then a cold sneak from the side
of Verbeena. Toes and finger tips were clammy with apprehension.

At this time, deep down, his torn and tortured pride was crying to the
astral heights:

"O, Allah, Allah, Allah, is it never going to end? Am I ever going to
get away from her?"

And things like that.

He had, as a matter of verity, long felt that he should take to the
woods, but how could he on the Sahara!

Either Oasis No. 3 or 5 was a heck of a distance.

Yet----

Verbeena stirred.

That decided him.

Swiftly he filtered through the flap in the tent and out under the
stars.

He stepped carefully over Spaghetti but Spaghetti was so nervous these
times he awakened very easily.

"Shush, not a word!" quavered the Sheik.

Pathetically Spaghetti ostriched and _donna-mobilay_.

With stupendous caution Amut stalked among the steeds. His ego was so
inherently erased that he touched the nose of Sunstroke
apologetically, fearsome that even his own horse might say him nay.

But Sunstroke laughed good-naturedly. A horse laugh, to be sure, yet
nevertheless nothing nasty in it. Sunstroke was only a kid and full
of larks. He was all for the notion of churning the desert in the
small hours of the night and whizzled his tail gayly to indicate it.

For that, the Sheik kissed him.

He was so very grateful to meet one in whom the urge of travel was
prevalent.

Taking the saddle like a lamb, Sunstroke nevertheless hopped forth as
of a piece of cyclone.

On the Sahara even a horse is granted rubber heels.

Noiseless the departure.

"Fare well, well, well, Verbeena!" shunted the Sheik Amut softly to
the handsome stars.

The stars are really very handsome on the Sahara. And so close. One
feels like picking them. On some kinds of drinks one often tries.

But Sheik Amut Ben Butler knew that he must not linger to become so
engaged.

With Allah quiescently concurring, Sheik Amut hoped ere morn to pull
Sunstroke up, lathered with foam necessarily, in Tipzaza or perhaps
Tlemcen although in a vague way he dreamed of Fez because there was a
big, stone wall around that, and gladsomely he killed many miles of
the desert but----

Alas! Allah would have appeared to have quit him altogether.

His dreams of freedom were due to detonated dispersal.

There was the crack of a pistol!

Sunstroke sat down ultimately.

From the sandpile where Amut found himself sitting on a troubled head
the Sheik began to reason that Verbeena was arrived.

Counsel couldn't help him he very well knew.

It was positively she. Because he heard her voice demanding:

"How dare you? What do you mean by it? Answer me this instant! Who
were you making off to see--Ayah or Beeyah or----"

"Aw, what the dickens," said the Sheik Amut, with a half show of
spirit. "All you caught me was a horse!"

She slung him across her saddle as even once he had slung her and she
frequently held him head down on the journey for as she said to him,
this sends the blood to the head and he could the better therefore
think of the atrocity he had planned. Now and then she would dip his
head in the sand to brush up his repentance.

That same night at home, the Sheik made a harrowing error. His
diplomacy proved catastrophical. For he dug up a treasure bag and out
of it drew a necklace of gorgeous, pallid greenstones, and dangled
them before her eyes.

"After all," said he, "it is you only I can ever love, Verbeena! Ah,
Verbeena! You fascinating baby mine! Here--take it--this small token
of the burning regard of my Sahara disposition!"

Instead of graciously accepting she nearly drove his turban through
the north wall of the tent. His head was in the turban.

"I get your Oriental subtlety, you wild Eastern oaf!" cried Verbeena
her red curls straightening and standing upright. "You think I'm a
jade, do you?"

On the Sahara has passed into song and story the family simoon which
then blew across, in, out, about, over and under tent of Amut Ben
Butler.



CHAPTER X


_Cous cous_ had given way to good old English bacon and eggs and
marmalade on the breakfast table of the Sheik Amut Ben Butler.

"Chief," said the Sheik half-heartedly to Verbeena, slipping a piece
of bacon to his big, dangerous Persian hound that Verbeena was in the
habit of kicking around so freely, "would you mind if I had a friend
come and stay for a bit?"

"What kind of a character may this be?" demanded Verbeena.

"A literary light, one nearly as large as a moon. He sells an awful
lot of books."

"Of whom are you speaking?" asked Queen Verbeena readily inducting the
atmosphere.

"Robert," the Sheik paused because he was very sure of his grounds,
"Hitchings."

"Literary men," said Verbeena, "are usually terrible loafers and like
late breakfasts but as to Mr. Hitchings I am agreeable. I am fully
confident as regards Mr. Hitchings, I don't mind saying. He is always
interesting. I think it was reading his works which started me on this
trip."

"It rejoices me to have you so inclined," said the Sheik. "And Bob
will be pleased."

"That's up to him," smiled Verbeena, taking a heavy smash at the
marmalade. "Although I have every confidence that he will give little
trouble. From his tales of passion I am certain he is well-behaved.
But in view of the event I think, Amut, we should really move to a
larger oasis. It's possible he carries his adjectives with him."

"Wonderfully thoughtful," murmured the Sheik.

"What did you say?" asked Verbeena.

"I said, 'Hello, kid!'"

"Hello," said Verbeena.

To the Sheik her affability was immeasurably amazing.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Ben Butlers had moved to Oasis No. 12. This was a suburb of
Oudjda from whence, if you were out of things, you could always get
breakfast at Guercif.

For three days Mr. Hitchings had been taking his meals and notes with
the Ben Butlers.

His observations of the Sheik and Verbeena had moved his heart to
pity. So that he had very little left when the Sheik was carried in by
two men. A horse had refused to be trained and the Sheik A. Ben Butler
was therefore invested with six broken ribs.

He breathed like a dice-box in full cry.

[Illustration: THE ALLEGED MR. HITCHINGS.]

Verbeena prodded the Sheik somewhat and, deciding that he wouldn't
die, came into the outer tent and caused Mr. Hitchings to pause in
the taking of his notes by pulling his chair from under him.

"Did you wish to speak to me?" said Mr. Hitchings under the chair and
circumstances.

"A little, Robert. Who, you know, after all, is he?"

"You mean Sheik Amut?"

"I certainly," said Verbeena, "am not discussing Velasquez, Amerigo
Vespucci or Jack Dempsey. The yellow hair and the black whiskers are
noticeably incompatible, don't you think?"

"To be sure," assented Mr. Hitchings. "Well then----" and he got red
in the face. "I'll tell you. It was this way:

"In the first place he hates the English."

"I hadn't noticed that," said Verbeena.

"But he does--really. And why?"

Verbeena lifted her clubbed curls well off her ears.

"Why?"

For some reason or other she saw that Mr. Hitchings looked greatly
distressed.

"Because--well, you see, his father was the Earl of Glucose but not a
sticker for the proprieties. I might even say he drank freely. That
was not a habit clearly to take into the Sahara. And when thus
bedizened he sometimes failed in courtesy. Especially toward his wife.
She was Spanish but unquestionably all her life long had walked
normally. She was a bit of a Moor too. But new to sand-dunes. One
evening the Earl of Glucose feeling like kicking about a bit selected
his wife. He busied himself thus for some time.

"Then it would seem he kicked her so far that he couldn't find her nor
could she find herself and thus it was she happened upon the suburban
oasis of Sheik Ben Butler, senior.

"A boy was born. Kicking just like his father.

"The Sheik did not send her to his harem but kept the Spanish lady
with him hanging right around his neck until she died in his arms. Not
promptly but nearly so.

"The truth now," said the distinguished novelist, "is on the point of
bursting forth!

"Amut is that woman's son!"

"Mr. Hitchings!"

"I don't wonder that you are surprised. Amut was too when he heard
it. We all were! You see my father was in America at the time and the
Sheik was in China and so they met. By the same chain of
circumstances, Amut and I were both educated in Siberia. You
understand? But even if you don't, I don't either. Still it is
explanatory, is it not?"

"Mr. Hitchings!"

"Beg pardon."

"Let me get you a fresh green carnation."

She pinned it on him. They grow freely in the desert.

But she said emphatically:

"The story, sir, is wholly unworthy of you."

"Good heavens!" said Mr. Hitchings in ineffable alarm. "This isn't my
stuff! How could you think it? How ridiculous of me to have permitted
myself to be persuaded by Amut to try and put this over! I regret the
attempt abysmally. Right now, hear me, fair lady: I wash my hands of
the Hull thing!"

"Friendship may excuse this conduct of yours," said Verbeena coldly.
"But how, if you are also English, is it that Amut makes a friend of
you?"

"Now, there's something else again, isn't it? Just as if a rebellious
Sheik around here for an instant would make a bosom friend of a
Frenchman. It's a desperately silly story all the way through and I
surely apologize and--O--what?"

Verbeena had seized both hands and just wouldn't let go.

"Forget it," she was saying. "I've something much more important."

Her eyes flamed.

"Will you--O, will you, my dear Mr. Hitchings, do a moving picture for
me?"

"I most certainly will," replied Mr. Hitchings, "immediately--of a man
packing his grip."

"But I beg of you, who is he? For God's sake, listen to a woman's
plea! Solve this mystery of me lord's true identity!"

By this time, however, Mr. Hitchings had engaged the drawing room of a
camel and was navigating the Sahara by means of the good, old,
honorable North Star.



CHAPTER XI


Mr. Hitchings was in such a hurry hurtling off the Sahara with a
broken climax that he left some things behind.

There were two collar buttons, a large piece of dignity and a
newspaper clipping.

The collar buttons Verbeena knew she would be able to use, she kicked
the lost dignity aside but stood interested in the newspaper clipping.

Logically too. It was about her.

            "MISS MAYONNAISE MUCHLY MISSING."

Such was the headline in the Biscuit _Bismallah_.

And the article went on to say:

     "The world is in stupendous alarm over the disappearance of
     Miss Verbeena Mayonnaise who left the Hotel Biscuit here
     without her bacon and eggs more than a month ago or giving the
     clerk her forwarding address. She even forgot to pay her bill.

     "Her intention was to take a jaunty junket into the far wild
     places of the Sahara and it would appear that she has.

     "Not a squeak has been heard from Miss Mayonnaise since.

     "Miss Mayonnaise, indeed, is as thoroughly missing as sauce
     Neuburg from American life.

     "She was a grand girl in a gentlemanly way and things really
     don't look so good as to her fate.

     "It is deplorable that the sands of the desert carry no
     wireless and the palm trees in this regard are also
     imperturbable.

     "The terribly alarmed world has spoken to the British
     authorities demanding an immediate search but the discouraging
     reply has been: 'What can we do? The Sahara is so much larger
     than Scotland Yard!'

     "Lord Tawdry, the magnificently-mustached brother of Miss
     Mayonnaise, is concerned to distraction.

     "He stopped playing bridge long enough to say so.

     "A hotel porter of the Biscuit whom she forgot to tip, it is
     understood, has instituted a search for her but found no trace
     of the daring young adventurer in a seventy-mile trip out on
     the desert beyond 86,000 cigarette stumps.

     "And some scattered Arabs running around the Sahara asking
     Allah to alleviate their condition in the matter of a she-demon
     who is banging a great and well-known Sheik about haphazardly.

     "They have given her the name of 'Jinny.'

     "Although this clue is, of course, unpromising it was learned
     by cable late last night that Sherlock Holmes has telephoned
     Doctor Watson to come on over to Baker street, he's got
     something interesting on.

     "Confidence has been hopefully and freely expressed that if Mr.
     Holmes doesn't find Miss Mayonnaise he will, at any rate, lose
     Watson."

Verbeena's hopes and aims went vaunting in a very triumphant manner on
the reading of this clipping.

It was mean, however, she thought of Mr. Hitchings not to have shown
it to her.

Yet leaving it behind may have been one of his subtleties.

Anyway, hooray!

Obviously she sensed palpably that it was all highly intriguing.

Mad emotions stirred the Sheik to follow her with an admiring eye when
to show how pleased she was she went forth on the newly leased oasis
and threw herself among the tops of the palm trees indiscriminately.

In swift palpitation that made his heart beat the Sheik hugged his
bandaged ribs and watched her.

She moved gracefully among the tree tops snapping branches off
heartlessly. She radiated, also, he saw, mercilessly among the
verbiage.

In spite of a week's notice, for Verbeena meant to can Spaghetti, the
faithful fellow had drawn up to the Sheik's side and Amut turning
wonderingly toward him asked wildly:

"Are they the Willies she's got or what?"

"O, Monseigneur, merely angelically acrobatic," said Spaghetti with a
touch of reverence that was reverberating.

Suddenly Verbeena vamoosed from the palm trees, fell thirty feet with
a happy turn which landed her directly on the shampoo bandage which
was the Sheik's native headgear.

"My dear, your exuberance fascinates as well as flattens me," said the
august Amut in his fall. "May I ask the cause? Mind you, I do not
insist. You well know, I am too proud to fight."

"You will learn in time, my dear," laughed Verbeena airily, her
thoughts running ragingly in the line of movie contracts, of a day
soon when she would excel the gilded harvestings of Queen Mary
herself.

"Aw--please, O, clashing cadence of my soul's innermost adoration, let
your Sheiky know what gives you such happiness divine!"

"Nix-nix!" said Verbeena with excessive laughter, "my conquering
devil! Have you fed the camels yet? If not, spill that toga and hump
yourself!"

"Immediately, O, exquisite creature of Allah's greatest favor! And
yet, if you'll pardon me, this night I had planned taking a smack at
my old enemy, Sheik Abraham O'Mara. He's been cutting into the borders
of our sandpile considerable lately. E'er this, Queenie, he has always
been scared of me. But now he rides about the wide places, the narrow
and the circumambient without fear or dread of Amut Ben Butler.

"Once his goat was mine but now he thinks nothing of grabbing my
horses and camels any old time."

"Go right over and attend to him this evening," said Verbeena. "You
have my full permission. If he gets giddy with you just tell him I'll
be over myself. I've heard too that he is uncommonly cussed among the
women. And him a black Sheik at that--the old Ace of Spades! Tell
him----"

[Illustration: THE SHEIK ABRAHAM O'MARA, WHO BEAT IT FOR DEAR LIFE
ACROSS THE SAHARA AT SIGHT OF VERBEENA.]

"Tee-hee-hee!" chuckled the lordly Amut.

"What are you laughing at?" demanded his thoroughly acknowledged
wife--(in writing, you remember).

"Just look over on the horizon, my dear."

"At whom?"

"Those now to be seen scooting out of sight across it. The distance is
great but I recognize the leading figure clearly as the Sheik Abraham
O'Mara. See how fat! And how fast he travels! And yet it has always
been said of him there was danger ever when that fiend was abroad.
But, it seems he saw us first."

"Aha, afeard of you, my Amut?"

"Of me," he chuckled again and again.

For the first time in months the Sheik permitted himself a little bold
laughter.

"Of me!"

Once home in the tent the Sheik Amut Ben Butler dared to put his arms
out to her. He was no ordinary man to succumb to the fascinations of a
woman. You had to hit him first.

But having experienced the metallic obstinacy of Verbeena Mayonnaise,
the inflexibility of her character and seeing, as he ecstatically had,
the flight of his powerful and avowed enemy, Abraham O'Mara, he was
fraught with the realization that love had become a force in his life
which might drive him to anything where Verbeena was concerned,
predominantly and irresistibly.

He'd be trimming her curls for her next.

Amut's arms ached for her and always ached worse after he had tried to
hold her.

He permitted his mind to careen woefully regarding the secret Verbeena
was withholding. Something had made her very happy and as he felt
nothing to boast of in this regard he wondered incontinently. But in
his growing emotion concerning one who could not only chase him but
his greatest enemy at the very sight of her, the Sheik allowed himself
a sharp, sobbing intake of breath.

At the same time no other sign escaped him of the hell he was
enduring. She might not like it.

But he couldn't keep his mind off Verbeena for the distant howlings of
jackals came closer and closer.

Still, as between the two, he certainly liked her best.

And what was this secret that had sent her gamboling high among the
palm trees?

He had asked her and she wouldn't tell. His soul, his mind and heart
hammered, stirred, tintinnabulated and undulated to find out.

Little he knew then that vouchsafement as to this might have been
regarded generally as pretty closely to hand.



CHAPTER XII


It was a Monday morning about two months later and the Sheik was
helping Hulda hang out the wash in the back of the Big Tent, his soul
pondering in trepidation, even worry as one might say, regarding what
Verbeena was contemplating, what she was ruminating with such open
evidences of liking it, in her masterful, little, red-capped noodle.

Fear suddenly clutched him clamorously by the heart.

It rang in his brain--ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling-a-ling!

They were now stopping at the Sahara Golf club oasis which is really a
mere suburb of Orange, very popular because the golf club oasis was
the wettest on the desert. So near Orange! She could, she would----

"Allah save my skin," whispered the Sheik as best he could on account
of the clothes-pins in his mouth as he was spearing Verbeena's
B.V.D.'s to the line hanging low between the stately palms.

From time to time as the reversal of the rôle he played in her life
came to his quivering lips in cries of "Allah, O, Allah, let up on
me!" he had managed to steal a horse-whip or two and bury it in the
sand until nearly all of them had disappeared. It was not
consideration for the horses which had led to those depredations. And
now the thought had come to him that they were so near Orange she
might ride in herself or send forth a blindly obedient equerry thence
to fetch a new supply of first quality, sturdy horsehide lashes.

"O," cried Sheik Amut fervently, "Allah, have a heart!"

But just about then other things happened to make his heart tick
harder--like a grandfather's clock.

He and Hulda dropped the wash to rush to the front of the tent where
had arrived a messenger. Sure, on horseback.

"From Orange!" said the carrier dismounting.

"A communication for me?" asked the Sheik in his soft, mild tones.

"For you?" laughed the messenger, scornfully unloading two big bags.
"You! By Allah, stand aside and don't make the sandworms laugh!
Where's Queen Verbeena?"

"By the same Allah," returned the Sheik with a show of spirit, "unless
your business is of prime importance I would not disturb her now. She
is at her daily exercise within and cares never then to be
interrupted."

"Why doesn't she exercise with a horse?"

"Idiot, forbear lest she overhear. Besides, it's not that sort of
exercise at all. For three hours each morning she now spends her time
making faces in the looking glass. For what purpose when I ask her of
it, she orders me back into the open as being none of my Oriental
damned business. What's in the bags?"

"Letters--letters--thousands--all for her."

"Yet, by Allah, it is not Valentine's day."

"True."

"No, but by Allah, it's near the first month. I wonder what bills
she's been running up!" faltered the Sheik.

Now the letters--there is no use keeping a person's readers
waiting--were in reality, in response to an advertisement she had
secretly placed in several theatrical newspapers. It had read:

     "Famous Lost Lady on Sahara Open for Moving Picture Engagement.
     No triflers. Address P. Oasis Box No. 17 via Orange."

The messenger was now bearing to Mrs. The Sheik Amut Ben Butler thirty
thousand and forty-six communications from all the choicest open-air
murder colonies in the country.

But true enterprise, real enterprise, enterprise in the magnificent,
was incarnated in the person of the celebrated Mr. Cyril Gristmille
for on that very instant he descended grandly in person in an
aeroplane. Slightly on his ear but soon readjusted himself. He had
faced this small accident without turning a hair. He hadn't any.

"See here," cried the Sheik Amut, "what the hellah do you mean by
swooping down this way on these grounds? Don't you see what you've
done? You've scared the horses and camels and scattered them all over
the desert! And, may Allah's curses crack your skull, you've knocked
down the week's wash and if you knew my wife----"

Mr. Gristmille gracefully drew a slender cigarette case from a lower
waistcoat pocket--yep, he had the habit too--and said:

"Well, then, don't stand there like a fathead looking at them run
away, my man. You and your other ragbags get busy and catch 'em again.
I may need 'em shortly."

"Need 'em? What do you want?"

"My business is not with you. But unless I am improperly informed this
tent harbors the famous lost English desert girl, Miss Verbeena
Mayonnaise?"

"That was," said Sheik Amut sticking up his nose at this haughty
stranger. "She's my wife now."

[Illustration: CYRIL GRISTMILLE, THE GREAT WOMAN TAMER.]

"Go in the tent then and tell her to come out to me--Mr. Cyril
Gristmille--immediately. I would do business with her."

"You would?"

"Hasten. Go right in and tell her to come out promptly."

"Go in and tell her yourself," said Amut. "I'm tired trying to tell
her to do anything."

"Very well," said Mr. Gristmille and stalked toward the main tent.

Sheik Amut and Spaghetti who was being given another trial by Verbeena
after his complete surrender of his garlic supply, and the Sheik's
other two pals, Yusef and Hamandaigs, looked one another keenly in the
eyes and began openly holding their ribs.

But to their surprise no pistol reports or manly howls for help arose
from within the tent.

Instead the elegant, pallid-faced Mr. Gristmille who had changed from
his aeroplane cap into a high hat before entering the tent--instead
then of Mr. Gristmille emerging with a scimitar wrapped around his
neck or his hat jammed down over his eyes--instead of this, O, Allah,
his haughty intrusion into the tent of the doughty little Sheik tamer
passed off in most perfect quiet and presently--hands up to Allah
again!--he emerged with Verbeena--with Verbeena!--why they hardly
recognized her! the way she was acting!

Her sturdy, cocky boyish nonchalance was gone, no longer did she
swagger and scowl, the little roughneck. Instead she had become as
feminine as a powder puff!

A mincing, smiling, trusting-eyed little red-headed dear!

She was looking up into the cameo profile of the illustrious and
bill-postered countenance of Cyril Gristmille as one might gaze into
the eye of a golden idol or a $10,000,000 check.

Every little trick of ingenuous girlhood was in everything that little
Verbeena did and the wondering Amut, Spaghetti and Hulda and Yusef and
Hamandaigs ran around telling the tribe about it. And they all agreed
they just simply couldn't believe it was Verbeena.

They all said it was if it were some female member of her family.

But had these innocents ever seen Mary Pickford they would have known
where Verbeena was getting her stuff. Little did they know she'd been
practicing up on it this many a day.

And the while in accents as honeyed as her glances she was saying:

"O, Mister--Mister Gristmille, it has been so good of you to come!
With all that money!

"And do you really think you can make an actress of me? Really?"

"I?--Why I," said Mr. Cyril Gristmille, "could make an actress of a
doughboy to say nothing of so perfect a little gentleman as you."

"How adorable! What do I do first?"

"The first thing you do," he said, and suddenly took her by the
shoulder and shook her thoroughly, "is to understand that you do every
little damn thing I tell you without making any fuss or faces about
it. Do you get me?"

He shook her again till her curls rattled.

Verbeena listened breathlessly and breathless isn't much of a word for
it. Her heart wobbled.

"You are always to remember _I_--_I_ am boss.

"And don't you try to carry out any notions of your own while you are
acting around me.

"You are to look, walk, talk, eat, weep, whimper, smile, sob, stalk,
twirl, mince, mope, wriggle, squirm, turn, stand, run, race, limp,
love, lallygag, or any old other darn thing I mention and demand just
as you hear me give the orders to do it or I'll take you and your
movie aspirations and bury them for once and all ten thousand feet
deep right in here in the sands of the Sahara!

"Once again," he fixed her with his piercing eye, "I ask--do you get
me?"

What Verbeena got was very hot under her boyish Eton collar and meant
to answer him scornfully but she felt her heart beating as if it meant
to beat it altogether.

However, the Movie Maharajah was not paying the slightest attention to
how she took it at all. He was giving his attention to a flock of
camera men, actors and such like arriving in 2,000 aeroplanes that
left for the Sahara that morning from Los Angeles.

She could not fight down the thrill that came at the study she then
began somewhat surreptitiously to make of the commanding figure of the
Movie Monarch among his men. The way he talked to them was a shame.
The way they took it, cringing, cowering, fawning yet with adoration
in their eyes, was a wonder.

He seemed suddenly to remember her.

"What are you standing there goofing for and staring that way at me?
Don't you know that you are to be a girl in the first reel?"

"I--I," hot shame mantled Verbeena's cheek. Why was it she did not
step straight forward and punch him in the nose? But somehow, he made
her so acutely conscious of her sex, or, rather, of what sex he wanted
of her.

"You are to be a girl in this first reel I tell you. Get back into
your tent and take that football suit off and put on something close,
clinging, and when you get it on work up a good, hippy walk--hippy and
a bit slouchy. Go on instantly, and get _him_ off and put _her_ on."

The man was simply terrible. With dragging feet she retreated to her
tent and for the boy's clothes that somehow made her feel good and
tough and ready to take chances with both hands, she submergedly
substituted a frock that she was fiercely angry with herself to find
herself, indubitably she herself, hoping would please him.

And it didn't--no chance.

Not with that movie mahout.

"In the name of all that's horrible!" he cried at her. "Is that the
best thing you've got to offer in clothes? It doesn't fit you--it
flops! Here--that skirt wants shortening and it wants tightening too,
and you can only see the half of the small of your back. Away with
that flock of rags! Got any others--in heaven's name, answer!"

"Yes--yes, sir."

"Go in and put another one on then and for the love of Pete, try to
pick something that looks like something above a dollar ninety-eight
on a bargain counter. Take that off--quick! Must I be your dressmaker
as well as your director?"

"O, sir," sobbed Verbeena Mayonnaise.

"And hurry up about it," came his slow but icy tones as she hurried
tentwards to hurry up just as fast as she hasten well could.

"Let's see," he conceded on his second sight of her, "that's awful as
the other but--O well--come here then--here is him whom is to be your
leading man in this heart-stirring and world-thrilling romance of my
forthcoming creation. He is to be your leading man, but I will attend
in all respects as to where he will lead you."

Verbeena saw as she was introduced to this young man that he was
exquisitely handsome, his face only saved from effeminacy by a firm
chin. He was tall, lithe, slender as a wand. Although she had never
been introduced to him before she recognized him instantly for it was
Fatty Arbuckle!



CHAPTER XIII


The Mighty Gristmille gave her no time to recover but plunged right
ahead with his ethological processes concerning herself.

"The story of this picture which I am about to make in order that it
may ring down the ages is soul-grasping and spirit stirring," said the
director to Verbeena in a greatly animated manner, "and that's all you
need to know about it in order to know about what you are doing. In
fact, there's no particular reason that you should know what you are
doing. But," he grasped her chin sharply and threw her head back with
an artistic touch that jarred her teeth, "it is important that you do
what I say. And don't you try to do anything else unless you are
ambitious to end your life as a canned chicken."

"But----" stammered Verbeena who was beginning to suspect deep down
after all she perhaps was really a girl.

"But nothing--and throw away that cigarette butt too. I'm not against
cigarettes. All heroes and vamps smoke yards of 'em on orders. But in
this scene you're a sweet thing--just a sweet thing--though God knows
if I'll be able to prove it to the camera eye or anybody else.

"Here--take this rose--smell it."

"It doesn't smell at all," said Verbeena.

"They don't when made of paper," said the great Gristmille. And for
some reason she saw that he suddenly gently smiled. He regarded
Verbeena with a new light in his eye--one nearly of approval. "Just
about the right intelligence," he was murmuring to himself, "out of
which to mold a great star. I'll show Dave Belasco where he stands
yet."

But his terrifying eyes blazed anew at Verbeena Mayonnaise.

"Now--here don't hold that flower like it was a flagpole
in a Suffragette parade! Turn your wrist a bit, give a flaunting
yet a timorous grace to it and now you step over--lots of
hip work-hip-hip-hippy--O, for God's sake, hippy! The boyish
beauty's off the map in the scene--hip work now--hip
work--rotten--rotten--rotten--hip work, hip, hip, hippy--and you give
the flower to our hero."

"Why am I giving him the flower?"

"None of your damned business! Give it to him--that's all you have to
do. I'm doing all the knowing why for this outfit.

"Heaven save the day, I didn't tell you to hit him with it! Give it to
him--timidly--timidly--you are afraid of him."

There was just a flash of the old dear, boyish Verbeena.

"I don't care who he is, I'm not afraid of him," she declared stoutly.

"Is that so?" said the director severely. "But remember you are afraid
of _me_! And don't try to tell me you are not!"

"I----"

"Don't ever open your mouth like that when speaking! You are a
heroine--not a walrus! Now then--the tender scene--giving the flower
to Rinaldo--shush, I didn't mean to let that much out as to the story
but--well, you might as well know right now that the hero is Rinaldo
Ringrose--that's Mr. Arbuckle's name in the picture.

"Now then, advance--hip, hip, hip--that's better--a little
better--except that you still look like a boy in skirts, one of those
damn pretty ones and a damn silly one at that."

Verbeena gasped. Through her thick lashes she regarded this man of the
gyratory wealth of gestures whose dominating spirit it was manifest
was to be seen. She feared--began to fear--almost started to be afraid
that the Verbeena of old was dead or nearly corpsical. Her old doughty
self, she grovelingly began to consider, was starting to decline. Her
fighting stamina she felt would soon be selling for date seeds on the
Sahara Exchange.

And yet how noble he was!

His manner of using a cigarette case was so much more graceful than
her own.

And he seemed to know everything. Certainly he thought he did.

And all his men gave him such blind obedience. He had a trick of
flashing the sun in their eyes from his cigarette case that probably
caused them to do this, she deducted.

Two days passed before he finally decided she had given the hero the
rose properly. That, doubtless, was why they used artificial roses. A
real one couldn't last out a rehearsal.

But somehow, in the depths of her harrowed, deeply embittered,
astonished young soul, she was humbly glad that at last she had given
the hero the rose properly.

"That's that," said the High Mandarin of the Movies, "and although
worse than bad eggs, in other things you may stand a chance of
realizing my genius for me in the soul-stirring, magnificent,
marvelous, magnitudinous work of art I am on the brink of creating.
Come--come--a little loud and prolonged applause--everybody please. I
thank you.

"The next scene will call for you saying a tender farewell--keep
remembering your sex, madame--with your lover under a tree. An apple
tree in full bloom."

"There aren't apple trees on the desert," Verbeena with simply idiotic
indiscretion observed.

The director flung his hat on the sand, kicked it in the air, ran
around the desert on all fours for a mile, then arose majestically.

"How dare you! Can't you see that under one of those tall palm trees
the shadows wouldn't fall right on the picture? No blossoming apple
trees on the desert, eh? I guess you don't know _me_! Billy, an apple
tree, full blossom!"

The man addressed obeyed swiftly. In a jiffy he had brought one from
the property aeroplane and raised it in place.

"O, Good Lord," again and again reverberated in the ears of
Verbeena, "you squint so with that snub-nosed face of yours!
You--gently--gently, gently into his arms. You're not wrestling
him--you're loving him--you--not that sidelong glance--a big look into
his eyes and now then--remember although we've only begun here, this
is the end of the picture--the final close-up--now, extend lips in
full, both--stick 'em way out--that's it--now then, kiss--kiss--hold
that--hold it--kiss, kiss, kiiiiiiiisssssssssss!"

"You know nothing of kissing! Nothing! And you're supposed to have had
Oriental training too! Here--come here--like _THIS! Kiss--kiss--LIKE
THIS!!_"

A gleam of anger shot into Verbeena's tired eyes but she was
powerless. The compelling quality of this terrible creature, the
force with which he held her, the exultant, horrible, heavy, hot, and,
she could feel, relentless, half savagely cruel, indifferent way he
was doing it to her!

[Illustration: WHEREIN THE MOVIE MAHOUT INFORMS VERBEENA SHE WILL NEXT
BE REQUIRED TO BE SHOT OUT OF A PALM TREE BY HER LOVER IN MISTAKE FOR
A SQUIRREL.]

She dropped to her knees at the end of it begging for mercy.

He laughed at her coldly.

"You must get the idea of it--the sooner the better," he said with a
hauteur that made her cringe back into her old caterpillar crouch.

"Now the next scene--and we must hurry up or the light will be bad--is
where you are shot out of the top of a palm tree by your lover in
mistake for a squirrel.

"Come now--action--Cameras!--Cameras train on that palm tree over
there. The tallest one, of course. Remember, Mrs. Amut, you fall
dead--a dead fall--right straight out of the tree on your face. What's
that? Dangerous? Nonsense! And what if it is? What do you suppose we
are paying you for? What's a cracked nose for art's sake! No more
nonsense, no more words--up you go!"

Verbeena climbed.

Sometime later on being restored to consciousness wherein she knew
what was going on around her, she heard the great Gristmille saying:

"Very well, hop up there, leading woman! All ready for the next
scene."

"What--what is it?" faltered Verbeena.

"How dare you ask questions? Your instructions will all come in due
time. And now's the time!

"In the next scene you fall from your horse--you're shot or something,
perhaps struck in the back with a lance--I haven't quite made up my
mind--and then you will be run over by a herd of wild Arabian horses
with Mr. Arbuckle pursuing in the hope of rescue borne by eleven
camels, one for the hope and ten for Mr. Arbuckle.

"Come now--quick--and remember you are not to look frightened as the
horses--about two thousand of them--rush over you. As a heroine you
are calm-eyed in the face of certain death. If you do we'll have to
keep repeating the scene and I don't want to give too much time to it.

"Come on now--there must be no delay--the horses are ready--at great
expense--they are ready and now--_hey, Billy, Jim, Grady,
Bert_--_quick--how dare she!--quick--catch that girl!_"

But Verbeena's early education when she used to beat all the Harrow
boys at sprinting served her well.

She covered the three miles back to her own Oasis leaving all pursuers
in the ruck. _Time 42-1/2 seconds, but record not official._



CHAPTER XIV


Verbeena floundered wild-eyed, wide-mouthed, panting into the tent of
the Sheik Amut Ben Butler.

She fled into the arms of Amut. She clung there girlishly trembling,
so tired she was exhausted.

"O, dash it all, dash it all--that man--that man--that _terrible_ man!
Save--save me! I'm all for you and Allah hereafter, Amut, save--save
me--save me from that _terrible man_!"

He held her as he had never held her before--as he never had been able
to hold her before.

He regarded the pitiful, gasping little figure which tried to kneel at
his feet, and, once more a deep and splendid chestiness came upon Amut
Ben Butler.

He--in spite of all--Allah, and by Jove, he loved her!

He had long wrestled with himself concerning it because it was
preferable than trying to wrestle with Verbeena.

Ah, the dear head now drooping that once so proudly poised with its
jaunty clubbed curls.

A lion's heart grew under the jelab of the old-time Boss of Oasis Nos.
4, 5, 12 and 16.

There was the sound of horsery and the clangor and click of camera men
without.

"Save me, O God, save me!" gasped Verbeena anew. "That man--that
_terrible_ man!"

Amut Ben Butler strode proudly to the flap of his tent and looked out.

"You just go away from here, every one of you, do you hear? Yes, I
mean you too--you big stiff with the silver cigarette case! I think
it's phoney anyway. My wife doesn't care to have anything to do with
you and I don't either. So back to your aeroplanes and flooey!"

In horror, in abject dread Verbeena's clubbed curls were buried in the
cushions. But in a little while her distrait, white face was lifted.

"Amut," she ventured, "Amut--has he gone?"

Amut Ben Butler carefully flicked a sandworm off his silver and black
girdle.

"Sure, darling," he answered. "I just went out and sent that whole
moving picture outfit reeling, Kingpin and all!"

She crept closely to him. Her strong young arms went about him.

"Amut, my love," she pleaded, "will you promise not to run away from
me any more?"

"May Allah cross my eyes and crack my teeth, if ever again I think of
it, my vibrant Verbie. I wouldn't wanter--ever--the way you act to me
now--so nice--so loving--just like a regular girlie."

He kissed her otherwise clubbed curls.

They snuggled close.

Ooooooh, awful close!

Throbs palpitant and passionate passed from one to the other--strong,
vertiginous, terrific, as of an aching tooth.

"Tell me, Amut," she said more softly than she ever knew she could,
"who after all the dickens are you?"

His blue eyes sparkling like opals in their ardor, looked down upon
her with a tenderness too ineffable to matriculate. But he sighed and
was silent.

"And--and why do you hate the English?"

"Hate the English? With you in my arms, sweet Verbie? Hate the
English! Only I used to, Verbeena mine--used to. But----"

"Who--who are you? Amut, as you love me speak!"

"I----"

"You----"

"Am----"

"Are----"

"I--I can hold the secret back from you no longer, throbbing jewel of
my passion. I----"

"You----"

"Am----" He doffed his turban and stood erect. He glanced fixedly into
her uplifted eyes. "The Crown Prince!"

"Crown Prince! Amut. Crown Prince of--of----"

"Of Chermany!"

"Mine Gott!" gasped Verbeena!

"That partnership has been dissolved, Verbeena lieber. But as soon as
Popper schnapps the manacles of Holland off him, a new and splendid
project will be put in operation by us ever magnificent and glorious
Hohenzollerns. New and great fortunes await us--here on the desert,
Verbeenalina! You bet your life on that! What do you think? We intend
to establish a chain of Imperial Breweries on the Sahara where
everybody is always so thirsty. Isn't that great, Verbie? How's that
for high?"

"Great--but I--I am English!"

"Aw--the war's over! Aw--come on, be a good little feller--I mean
sweetheart. Stick along."

"But your princess!"

"The Sahara is a wide-spot and there ain't many princesses got the
fare to Reno these days, Verbeenagaborden. And, besides, didn't you
draw up a fine Saharatic marriage contract? In lots of desert love
affairs in the novels they jolly well--how do you like my English so
swell spoken to please you?--don't never get so far as a scrap of
paper between them. Nothing between them--just nothing but----"

Verbeena looked at him demurely.

"True for you, Goldielocks," said she, adding with a courage that was
easily tantamount to bravery, "I'd rather be respectable than a best
seller any day!

"But--who in the world are these people around you? Spaghetti--who is
he?"

"The only ferdombt Italian who stuck when the treaty busted. Popper
was going to make him King of Rome or something good like that only
for what happened."

"And Hulda?"

"Sh--the Grand Duchess Hautenglautenschlitzenburg! She's hiding!"

"From what?"

"That name."

"But Mr. Hitchings--however did you come to have him for a friend?"

"Verbeenaheimer," laughed the Crown Prince, "that wasn't Mr.
Hitchings. It's Charlie of Austria. He expects to organize a circus
troupe and enter Vienna with a large company of desert men, himself
disguised as a dancing girl. Then some night they will burst from the
tent and Charlie will pull his crown from under his skirts and--there
you are! He'll be king again--for a minute.

"But me and popper and the chain of breweries----"

"Ah!"

"Yah!"

She snuggled to him closer and closer and closer and closer and closer
than that. Her magnificent long black lashes dusted off his cheek.
She smoothed back the fair hair that had been so strange to her in
company with the jet whiskers that once he had worn. She thought of
Cyril Gristmille and then she clung to him like a little leech--only,
you know, a warm leech.

"My prince--my prince--my Sheik Amut Never Ben King," she sighed
gustfully.

Entranced he grasped her to him fiercely his lips against her lips!
Their eyes were blazing, their veins throbbing, their bodies writhing
as he whispered tensely, tickling her under the chin:

"Tweetsy, tweetsy, Verbeena mine!"

Beyond the tent flap they saw the silver shaft of the magic moon and
caught glimpses of the stately palms where the dates clustered into
the years and to their ears came the sweet, silvery, insistent,
impassioned twillipping of the sandworms, the neighing of the beloved
horses, the music of the mules and the vibrant sweet cough of the
camels.

In delicious hectic harmony their pulses beat mutually at 110.

[Illustration: HOHENZOLLERN ANT. SON
               IMPERIAL SAHARA BREWERIES
               OUR TRADE MARK: HOCH DER BOCK!]



Transcriber's Notes:


Archaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation retained.





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