He had dark eyes with noticeably long lashes; heavy eyebrows; what the army examination-sheets describe as a medium chin; rather large hands with long, straight fingers; and feet such as an athlete stands on, fully big for his size, but well shaped.

He was young for a major--somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.
Once he was satisfied that I would not write him up for the newspapers he showed no disinclination to talk, although it was difficult to keep him on the subject of himself, and easy to let him lose you in a maze of tribal history.

He seemed to know the ins and outs of every blood-feud from Beersheba to Damascus, and warmed to his subject as you listened.
"You see," he said, by way of apology when I laughed at a string of names that to me conjured up only confusion, "my beat is all the way from Cairo to Aleppo--both sides of the Jordan.

I'm not on the regular strength, but attached to the Intelligence--no, not permanent--don't know what the future has in store--that probably depends on whether or not the Zionists get full control, and how soon.

Meanwhile, I'm my own boss more or less--report direct to the Administrator, and he's one of those men who allows you lots of scope." That was the sort of occasional glimpse he gave of himself, and then switched off into straight statements about the Zionist problem.