____ ____,American Consular Agent.
____ ____,American Consular Agent.
____ ____,American Consular Agent.
____ ____,
American Consular Agent.
A letter authorizing the company to sell me a ticket that it would have been delighted to sell to any species of man or ape who had the money! It was as valuable as a letter from the mayor of New York would be in buying a subway ticket! I dumped my possessions recklessly on the floor and sped away to the hotel at a pace that spilled four natives in the mire, by actual count. The consul was as raving as before. He had just lain down for his siesta and was convinced that I had repented my refusal to ask for money. A few words reassured him. He fidgeted while I explained the desired wording of the new note; and I was soon speeding back to the owner of the junk-shop face.
He read the new communication after the leisurely way of the East, and said:—“Well, as a sailor we can give you a ticket at half-price—six francs.”
I snatched the note out of his hand. The goblins catch that scatter-brained consul! He had unburdened himself as follows:—
Dear Friend:—
The bearer, Frank Harris, is an American sailor without funds who wishes to go to Egypt. Kindly sell him a ticket as cheaply as possible, and oblige, etc., etc.
—— ——,American Consular Agent.
—— ——,American Consular Agent.
—— ——,American Consular Agent.
—— ——,
American Consular Agent.
Utterly indifferent to the rain, I sat down against a pillar outside the office. Four paltry francs rattled in my pocket. Long, penniless days on the Jaffa beach seemed my promised lot. Stevedores were struggling to breast the towering waves. Now and then a giant comber overturned a laden rowboat high on the beach. Barefooted natives waded into the surf with tourists in their arms. Each warning whistle seemed to thrust Egypt further and further away. If only—
I felt a tap on the shoulder. A young native in the uniform of Gook and Son was bending over me.
“Go on board anyway,” he said.
“Eh?” I cried.
“The captain is English. If you are a sailor he will give you work.”
“But I can’t get on board,” I answered.
For reply, the native pointed to the tourist-company boat, laden with baggage and mails, at the edge of the wharf. I snatched up my knapsack and dropped into the craft.
The steamer was weighing anchor when I scrambled up the gangway. I fought my way through a chaos of tumbled baggage, seasick natives, and bellowing seamen, and attempted to mount to the bridge. A burly Arab seaman pushed me back. When darkness fell on an open sea I had not yet succeeded in breaking through the bodyguard that surrounded the captain. Writhing natives covered every spot on the open deck. I crawled under the canvas that covered the winch, converted my bundle into a pillow, and fell asleep.
In what seemed a half-hour later I awoke to find the ship gliding along as smoothly as in a river. I crawled out on deck. A bright morning sun was shining, and before my astonished eyes lay Port Saïd. The ticket collector had neglected to look under the winch for passengers.
The steamer was held in quarantine for several hours. I purchasedfood of a ship’s boy and settled down to await the good will of the port doctors. As I lined up with the rest, to be thumped and prodded by order of His Majesty, the Khedive, a new plan flashed through my mind. The ship was to continue to Alexandria. That port, certainly, gave far easier access to the real Egypt than Port Saïd, and it was an unexplored city. Instead of disembarking with the others, therefore, I sought out the captain once more—and once more was repulsed by a thick-witted seaman.
I returned to the deck and sat down on a hatch. To my dismay, the native purser began to collect the tickets before the last tender was unloaded. He approached me and held out his hand.
“Where can I see the captain?” I demanded.
“M’abarafshee,” he answered, shaking his head, “bilyeto!” (ticket).
Certainly I must offer some excuse for being on board without a ticket. The lean form of the purser bending over me called up the memory of the Jaffa consul. I rummaged through my pockets, and, spreading out his second note to the ship’s agent, laid it in the purser’s hand. The consul’s yellow stationery bore a disconcerting contrast to the bundle of dark-blue tickets. The officer gave vent to his astonishment in an avalanche of Arabic.
“M’abarafshee!” I imitated.
He opened his mouth to launch a second avalanche, hesitated, scratched his head, and, with a shrug of the shoulders, went on gathering “bilyetos” from the native passengers.
Some time later he descended from the upper deck and, beckoning to me, led the way to the bridge. The steamer was preparing to get under way. The captain, a burly Briton, stormed back and forth across the ship, striving to give orders to the crew in such Arabic as he could muster, and bursting the bounds of that unnatural tongue with every fourth word, to berate the blockheads in forcible excerpts from the King’s—private—English. His eye fell upon me.
“Here,” he roared, profanely, ’tis true, but to the point, “what the bloody —— is all this?” and he waved the now ragged note in my face.
“Why, that’s a note from the Amurican consil in Jaffa, sir, sayin’ I want t’ ship for Egypt.”
The purple rage on the skipper’s face, the result of his attempt to set forth in Arabic thoughts only expressible in English, subsided somewhat at the sound of his own tongue.
The Palestine beast of burden carrying an iron beam to a building in construction
The Palestine beast of burden carrying an iron beam to a building in construction
The Palestine beast of burden carrying an iron beam to a building in construction
Jews of Jerusalem in typical costume
Jews of Jerusalem in typical costume
Jews of Jerusalem in typical costume
“But,” he went on, in milder tones, “this note asks the company togive you as cheap a passage as possible; and it’s addressed to the agent, not to the captain of this ship.”
“What, sir!” I cried, “Is that all? Why, the consil knowed I ’adn’t no money, sir.”
“It’s open; why the devil didn’t you read it?” retorted the skipper.
“Aye, sir,” I answered, “but it’s wrote in some foreign lingo.”
“Eh?—er—well, that’s right,” admitted the commander, with a waver of pride in his voice. “It’s written in French, and this is what it says”—and he translated it.
“Why that bloomin’ consil—” I gasped.
“American sailor, are you?” demanded the captain.
I handed him my Sardinian and Warwickshire discharges.
“Well,” he mused, “if that note had been in English, I’d—”
“I’m ready to turn to with the crew, sir,” I put in.
“N—no. That’ll be all right,” said the skipper, stuffing the note into his pocket as he turned his attention to the seamen on the deck below. “Cover that hatch, you bloody fools, before a sea fills her!”
Early the next morning I disembarked in Alexandria.