While the soldier was speaking, Midnight—to Abdullah’s great surprise—climbed to Abdullah’s knees and rubbed herself against his face, purring. Abdullah had to admit he was flattered. He had been letting Midnight get to him as well as the genie and the soldier—not to speak of Fate. “If I wish for the carpet,” he said, “I am prepared to bet that the misfortunes the genie sends with it will far outweigh its usefulness.”

“You bet, do you?” said the soldier. “I never resist a bet. Bet you a gold piece the carpet will be more use than trouble.”

“Done,” said Abdullah. “And now you have your own way again. It perplexes me, my friend, that you never rose to command that army of yours.”

“Me, too,” said the soldier. “I’d have made a good general.”

Next morning they woke into a thick mist. Everywhere was white and wet, and it was impossible to see beyond the nearest bushes. Midnight coiled against Abdullah, shivering. The genie’s bottle, when Abdullah put it down in front of them, had a distinctly sulky look.

“Come out,” said Abdullah. “I need to make a wish.”

“I can grant it quite as well from in here,” the genie retorted hollowly. “I don’t like this damp.”

“Very well,” said Abdullah. “I wish for my magic carpet back again.”

“Done,” said the genie. “And let that teach you to make silly bets!”

For a while Abdullah looked up and around expectantly, but nothing seemed to happen. Then Midnight sprang to her feet. Whippersnapper’s face came out of the soldier’s pack, ears cocked sideways to the south. When Abdullah gazed that way, he thought he could just hear a slight whispering, which could have been the wind or something moving through the mist. Shortly the mist swirled—and swirled harder. The gray oblong of the carpet slid into sight overhead and glided to the ground beside Abdullah.

It had a passenger. Curled up on the carpet, peacefully asleep, was a villainous man with a large mustache. His beak of a nose was pressed into the carpet, but Abdullah could just see the gold ring in it, half hidden by the mustache and a dirty drape of headcloth. One of the man’s hands clutched a silver-mounted pistol. There was no question that this was Kabul Aqba again.

“I think I win the bet,” Abdullah murmured.

Even that murmur—or maybe the chilliness of the mist—set the bandit stirring and muttering fretfully. The soldier put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Abdullah nodded. If he had been on his own, he would have been wondering what on earth to do now, but with the soldier there he felt almost equal to Kabul Aqba. As quietly as he could, he made a gentle snoring noise and whispered to the carpet, “Come out from underneath that man and hover in front of me.”