There is no railroad from Haifa to Jerusalem and the only means of getting to the Holy City is to drive to Jaffa, a distance of about seventy miles. From Jaffa we could go by train to Jerusalem. Richardson and I had always made it a point to keep out of the hands of Thomas Cook and Son. This concern, which is in all parts of the world, is a great convenience to travellers and their rates are moderate in most cases. However, we had no time for them and they had no time for us. We could travel cheaper without their assistance. They are not interested in tramps or steerage passengers.
Haifa was one place where we were forced into the hands of Thomas Cook. It was a case of go in one of his stages to Jaffa at ten dollars each, or not go at all. It would have been a source of regret to us for many years if we had abandoned the trip. The Americans were full of enthusiasm about it. Richardson and I caught the spirit and agreed to go.
There were ten stages in the party with about thirty passengers from the Austrian Lloyd steamer, including our newly-acquired American friends. This little caravan left Haifa about noon. It wound its way around the base of Mount Carmel, on whose summit is a monastery—said to be erected over the cave in which Elijah sought shelter from Ahab. In an hour we were on the coastal plains of Palestine. There are no modern highways in the Holy Land. I don't recall seeing anything that looked like a road all the way from Haifa to Jaffa. We rode over fields, up hills and through valleys. We simply started in the right direction and went straight across the country.
That evening we came to a small Jewish village called Zamarine. This settlement was nothing more than a dozen little houses on the top of a hill. The whole party put up at the Hotel Graff. The proprietor of this place knew nothing of our coming and hadn't prepared any food for us. We were a tired lot and had to go to bed hungry, with only the promise of a good breakfast in the morning.
Every one was up at two o'clock to get an early start for the fifty-mile run into Jaffa. The good breakfast consisted of weak creamless coffee, unbuttered bread and a few sardines or small canned fish. This repast was a keen disappointment. It was an amusing sight to see the millionaire Chicago gas merchant and the California judge munching a dry piece of bread for a two A.M. breakfast. They expected more. Richardson and I took the meal as a matter of course. We had seen the time when such a menu would have been a luxury.
We left Zamarine when it was still dark and in a heavy down-pour of rain. This down-pour continued all day. The plains were soaked with water. When we were not pulling through the sticky mud of the fields we were bumping over the rocks and boulders of the hillsides. It was the worst stage trip I ever took.
The Pentecost preacher rode in the stage with Richardson and myself. He prayed for the rain to cease. The harder he prayed the harder it rained. We passed the hours in religious discussions. The old fellow was the most rigid Puritan on earth. He objected to cards, dancing and the theatre. We asked a hundred questions to draw him out and amuse ourselves.
"What chance has a man who drinks?" Richardson asked the preacher.
"None; booze is the devil in liquid form."
"Won't you have a cigarette?" I said, offering him a sack of Bull Durham and papers. I insulted the old man. He refused to answer.