Under the Big Dipper

“Oh—I guess my talk ain’t just the easiest for you to get on to. I always forget that not all people come from America. Why, after these natives found out we were square, that Mr. John wasn’t afraid of them or anyone else, for that matter, that he wouldn’t stand for any crooked deal—why, they were just good—that’s all! I remember it as if it was yesterday; out there in the Soudan—a God-forsaken country that I can’t see why people will insist on living in—when Mr. Morton got to investigate our store tent one mornin’—he found a tripod and some instruments missin’. We looked ’round, found tracks in the dust and sand proving that some barefooted rascals had stole in over night. Mr. Morton, he just throws his rifle over his shoulder, says, ‘Come along, Don, we must see about this.’ Well, we got our Arab driver to bring the horses and rode over across the valley to a camp of Wadi-Arabs we know’d were stoppin’ there. Mr. John rides up and asks for the

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