The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [37]
“We are not at loose ends; I have a great deal to do,” I said firmly. “Furthermore, Mr. Budge is working at Gebel Barkal, and you swore to me you would stay away from him.”
“Bah,” said Emerson, as I had expected he would.
Pleased to have had my stratagem of keeping Emerson and Mr. Budge apart succeed, I was extremely annoyed to find that I had overlooked one fact. Mr. Budge’s workmen, too, were enjoying their day of rest, and Mr. Budge had decided to pay a visit to his friends at the camp.
Fortunately Emerson was not with me when I made this discovery. He and Ramses had gone off to the village, ostensibly for the purpose of trying to hire more men, though, knowing their habits, I had the direst suspicions of what they would actually do. It had been left to me to strengthen our ties with the military establishment. I therefore rode directly to the camel hospital (my humorous term for it), since the beast I bestrode had an eye infection concerning which I was anxious to consult Captain Griffith. After a delightful and useful conversation, he informed me that General Rundle, having heard of my arrival, had invited me to join him and some of the other officers at luncheon. “And the professor too, of course,” he added.
“Oh, I have not the slightest idea where Emerson may be at this time,” I replied. “No doubt he is lunching with a Dervish or a Greek shopkeeper or a Beduin sheikh. So I will be happy to accept the general’s invitation.”
I tucked the tube of ointment he had given me into one of the pouches at my belt. Captain Griffith studied this accessory curiously. “Pardon me, Mrs. Emerson, but you seem to be somewhat—er—encumbered. Would you care to leave your—er—accoutrements here? They will be quite safe, I assure you.”
“My dear Captain, I would as soon think of going about without my—er—my hat as without my belt,” I replied, taking the arm he offered. “It is a trifle noisy, I confess; Emerson is always complaining about how I jangle and clank when I walk; but every object has proved not only useful but, upon occasion, essential to survival. A compass, a small canteen, a notebook and pencil, a knife, a waterproof box containing matches and candles—”
“Yes, I see,” the young man said, his eyes shining with interest. “Why waterproof, may I ask?”
I proceeded to tell him about the time Emerson and I had been flung into the flooded burial chamber of a pyramid, * and then, as he seemed to be genuinely fascinated, went on to explain my theories of appropriate attire for excavation. “One of these days,” I declared, “women will boldly usurp your trousers, Captain. That is to say—not yours in particular—”
We enjoyed a hearty laugh over this, and the captain assured me that my meaning had been quite clear. “I have no designs on them myself,” I went on. “These full, divided skirts are more flattering to a female figure, and yet they allow perfect freedom of movement. Furthermore, I suspect that the flow of air through their folds renders them more comfortable in a hot climate than those close-fitting nether garments of yours.”
He quite agreed with me; and in such interesting conversation the brief walk seemed even briefer. The general occupied a “mansion”—two rooms and a walled courtyard, plus a separate shed which served as a kitchen—built of mud brick instead of the usual interwoven branches. Emerson is always going on about the decadence of military officers,