"Run!" they cried. "Our
Excellency will feed Farag to the big dogs."
"I will come," said Farag. "And I will never go." He threw his
arm round Royal's neck, and the wise beast licked his face.
"Binjamin, by Jove!" the Inspector cried.
"No!" said the Governor. "I believe he has the makings of a James
Pigg!"
Farag waved his hand to his uncle, and led Royal on to the barge.
The rest of the pack followed.
* * * * *
Gihon, that had seen many sports, learned to know the Hunt barge
well. He met her rounding his bends on grey December dawns to
music wild and lamentable as the almost forgotten throb of
Dervish drums, when, high above Royal's tenor bell, sharper even
than lying Beagle-boy's falsetto break, Farag chanted deathless
war against Abu Hussein and all his seed. At sunrise the river
would shoulder her carefully into her place, and listen to the
rush and scutter of the pack fleeing up the gang-plank, and the
tramp of the Governor's Arab behind them.
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