Rather let us return to Chelal, and shelter ourselves in any lodging that offers, however wretched it may be.
***** A tavern of the horrible village in the light of an electric lamp.

It reeks of absinthe, this desert tavern, in which we warm ourselves at a little smoking fire.

It has been hastily built of old tin boxes, of the debris of whisky cases, and by way of mural decoration the landlord, an ignorant Maltese, has pasted everywhere pictures cut from our European pornographic newspapers.

During our hours of waiting, Nubians and Arabians follow one another hither, asking for drink, and are supplied with brimming glassfuls of our alcoholic beverages.

They are the workers in the new factories who were formerly healthy beings, living in the open air.