So there was
nothing about an obvious American doing spy-work for the French that
should stick in his craw; and that being so, the more cheerfully he
aided me the better it would likely be for him.
So he called for the servant again, and proved himself a good campaigner
by superintending the packing of a big basket with provisions--bread and
butter, cold chicken, wine, olives, and hot coffee in a thermos bottle.
"The French will be in Damascus by noon tomorrow," he said. "Ha-ha!
Those French and their hungry Algerians! We do well to take a good
provision with us--enough for two days at least. We shall enter with
them, I suppose, or at least behind them, and of course my house here
will receive consideration; but--ha-ha!--how many chickens do you
believe will be purchasable in Damascus one hour after the first
Algerians get here? Eh? Put in another chicken, Hassan, mon brave. Eh
bien, oui--pack the basket full; put in more of everything!"
At last he got into an overcoat lined with fox-pelt, for the night air
was chilly and an overcoat is less trouble than blankets if you expect
to spend a night on the move. We hove the huge basket into the waiting
auto, slammed the front door of the house behind us, piled into the back
seat and were off.
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