EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

valley of Paghman progressed all the more smoothly
because I had told them of the meaning of the song of
two comedians. They had not long, these two, in which
to pursue their sunlit courtship. My journalist was to
be thrown out of yet another territory.

Regularly at six in the evening, I would meet Signor
Pierri, who had come with me to Paghman. He would
just have bathed after his midday sleep. He would
come down the steps, treading daintily, the black eyes
morose as ever, and his clothes still a civilised wonder
in wild Asia. Solemnly he would take off his hat for
me, cast a surprised eye over my shorts and khaki
shirt (for I had no other clothes) and fall into step
beside me.

It was three days before the annual celebration of
Independence Day, August 1928. Great things were
expected when that day dawned. The King was to
speak, and it was thought that he would have some-
thing further to say of the programme for his kingdom.
He would detail the events of the past few months, and
tell the delegates to his annual jirga, or meeting, of the
honours that had been heaped upon him in all the cities
of the West.

Already, workmen were in the gardens sprucing up
the lawns and the flower beds for the great day. The
bandstand was having a new lick of paint. Ornamental
signs were being hung on the triumphal arch which led
to the road to the Palace. The flowers were bright in
the sunshine, all the Government officials were on tenter-
hooks, and all Kabul City, relic of the comfortable past,
was filled with a slight nervous tension.

Walking with Pierri this afternoon, however, we are
more concerned with the immediate chances of amuse-
ment than with the far-reaching possibilities of Inde-
pendence Day.

151