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Updated: June 9, 2025
He was the teacher of Leclair, Giardini, and Chiabran, as well as Pugnani, and he forms a connecting link between the classical schools of Italy and France. Pietro Locatelli was born at Bergamo, and became a pupil of Corelli at a very early age. He travelled considerably, and was undoubtedly a great and original virtuoso.
"Leclair, nothing else. I deprecate the adjectives." The Master's hand went out. The other took it. For a moment their grip held, there under the bright white illumination of the cabin for, though daylight had begun fingering round the drawn curtains, the glow-lamps still were burning. The hand-clasp broke. Leclair began: "As for you, monsieur, I already know you, of course. You are "
He sighted carefully through his glass, as Nissr sagged on and on, ever closer to the waves, ever nearer the hard, sun-roasted shores of Africa. "Yes, those are Beni Harb men. Dieu! May it be Sheik Abd el Rahman's tribe! May I have strength to repay the debt I owe them!" "What debt, Lieutenant?" asked the chief. Leclair shrugged his shoulders. "A personal matter, my Captain!
"This is surely a fitting spot for the exact geometrical center of Islam," the Master said to Leclair, as they stood looking down. "My measurements show this secret valley to be that center. Mecca, of course, has only been a blind, to keep the world from knowing anything about this, the true heart of the Faith.
Leaning from the upper port gallery, the Master with Bohannan, Leclair, and "Captain Alden," watched the shadow of the giant air-liner sliding over the tawny sand-bottom. That shadow seemed a scout going on before them, spying out the way to Arabia and to Mecca, the Forbidden City. To the white men that shadow was only a shadow.
"Ah, nom de Dieu!" cried Leclair, in sudden rage at seeing his chance all gone to pot, of coming to grips with the hated Beni Harb. From the penetralia of the air-liner, confused shouts burst forth. The upper galleries grew vocal with execrations. Not one was of fear; all voiced disappointment, the passion of baffled fury. Angrily a boiler-shop clatter of machine-guns vomited useless frenzy.
When I was about seven years old my father moved the family to the little town of LeClair, located on the bank of the Mississippi, fifteen miles above the city of Davenport.
To Leclair he whispered in Arabic an ancient saying of the desert folk: "'Allah hath given skill to three things, the hands of the Chinese, the brains of the Franks, the tongues of the Arabs!" He added: "When the gas strikes them, they would think the Frankish brain more wonderful than ever if they could think at all!"
This beautiful city now covers that "Section of land opposite Rock Island" that was donated by treaty to Antoine LeClair by the Sacs and Foxes, and also three or four more sections. At that time it was wholly uninhabited, the Foxes having removed their village from that point some three years before.
"Eh bien " murmured Leclair, noncommittally. "Well, can we make it, sir?" The ace inspected the vacuum-gauges, the helicopter tachometers, and shrugged his shoulders. "'Fais tout, toi-même, et Dieu t'aidera," he quoted the cynical old French proverb. "If nothing gives way, there is a chance."
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