"Where do we stop to-night?" I shouted to the French driver, who, with his yellow toque pulled down over his ears, was chirping encouragement to his horses.
"Sidi-Hamdane," he answered, without turning his head. "At the inn of 'Fin Tireur.'"
Three hours later we drew up before a low building, from which a light shone kindly, and I scrambled down stiffly, and lurched into the longed-for shelter.
There was a man in the doorway, a short, sturdy, middle-aged Frenchman, with strong features, a tuft of grey beard, heavy eyebrows, and dark, prominent eyes, with a hot, shining look in them.
"Bon soir, m'sieu," he said.
"Bon soir!," I answered.
This was my host, the innkeeper whom the driver had called "Fin Tireur."
I found out afterwards that he was not only landlord of the desolate inn, but cook, garçon; in fact, the whole personnel. He lived there absolutely alone, a