I suppose I ought to call him "my man Friday," but he was so dignified that no one would dream of taking such a liberty with him.

Jumma's thoughts ran to clothes.

He wore a neat khaki suit--blouse and "shorts," a pair of blue puttees, a pair of stout shoes, and a dazzling red fez, from which sprang a long waving ostrich feather.

My key ring hung at his belt, while around his wrist a neat watch was fastened.

The longest march, through mud and rain and wind and sun, would find him as trim and clean at the finish as though he had just stepped out of a bandbox.