He was trying to run away from trouble, but it hugged him like his own shadow. “Maybe if I run faster,” he thought. He doubled his fists close to his body. He plunged on. He could feel his lungs pumping for air. His breath came so fast it hurt him. And suddenly he was almost knocked flat by the saddle trappings of a camel. He stopped and stared. The camel was followed by her calf. A thought startled Agba. Camel’s milk! Horses of the desert were often raised on it. He had heard Signor Achmet say it was better than mare’s milk. Stronger. Richer. He ran to the driver, pulling the hem of his mantle to attract his attention. The driver turned around angrily. At once he recognized Agba. The boy had often been sent to him to buy camel skins for making stirrup leathers. The driver’s scowl turned into a greedy smile. Here was an emissary from the royal stables, from Signor Achmet himself! If he favored the boy there was no telling what riches might come to him.
