MY QUEST OF THE ARAB HORSE 



you accept them with a grin and say to your- 

 self "Halamy," and letting it go at that, im- 

 mediately forget it. 



But with Akmet Haffez it was different. 

 After you had once gained his friendship you 

 knew that what he said was never "Halamv." 

 At that last feast (shall we ever forget it?) we 

 sat for a long time and, as we ate, joked of the 

 trials we had had in the desert, laughed at 

 the thought of getting a real Turkish bath 

 when we reached the coast, and wondered 

 whether we could stand the sensation. Then 

 as the end drew near our mood changed, and 

 Akmet Haffez began what in any other 

 Bedouin would have been "Halamy." 



He gave thanks to Allah that we had come to 

 him and that he had been spared to see us. 

 Our going, he declared, was the great sorrow 

 of his life, but he had this one great consola- 

 tion: We had learned to eat rice with our 

 hands with the Anezeh and we ought to stay 

 and be real Bedouins. By the brightness of 

 our eyes (so he said with a kindly twinkling of 

 his own) we had won the tribes, and their 

 friendship would always be ours. So almost in 

 silence we finished the meal, and went to the 

 street below to say good-bye. Rare and beau- 



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