THE PEARL OF EGYPT, THE POETESS OF MUSCULAR
MOTION, DIRECT FROM THE SULTAN’S HAREM
It’s as empty as a last year’s coyote den and smells like a muskrat
burrow.
At the next tent we meets the last survivor. It sets there gnawing on
a hunk of bread and don’t pay much attention to us. I never seen such
outright hair on any human being. His head looks the same from front
and back, and all he’s got on is the collar and sleeve of a dirty
shirt and a skirt of swamp-grass. The words “water” and “bath” sure
was a dead language to that _hombre_.
“Just about who in —— are you?” asks Magpie.
The feller looks up at us, masticates a few times and then points at a
dirty sign on the tent.