Grim asked at once for the auto for me (I couldn't have had it
otherwise), and a moment later Jeremy and I were scooting into darkness
through narrow streets and driving rain, with the hubs of the wheels
awash in places and "shipping it green" over the floor when we dipped
and pitched over a cross-street gutter. The Arab driver knew the way,
from which I take it he had a compass in his head as well as a charm
against accidents and a spirit of recklessness that put faith in
worn-out springs. There wasn't room for more than one set of wheels at
a time in most of the streets we tore through, but a camel tried to
share one fairway with us and had the worst of it; he cannoned off into
an alley 'hime end first, and we could hear him bellowing with rage a
block away.
And our manner of stopping was like our progress, prompt. The brake-
bands went on with a shriek and Jeremy and I pitched forward as the car
brought up against the kerb in front of an enormous door, whose brass
knocker shone like gold in the rays of our headlights. We told the Arab
to wait for us and stepped knee-deep into a pool invisible, stumbled and
nearly fell over a great stone set to bridge the flood between street
and door, then proceeded to use the knocker importunately, thunderously,
angrily, as men with wet feet and bruised toes likely will, whatever the
custom of the country.
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