Hitherto we had met no Bedouins, and I interrogated my dragoman about them more than once; but he always told me that it did not signify; we should meet them, he said, before any danger could arise. “As for danger,” said I, “I think more of this than I do of the Arabs,” and I put my hand on my revolver. “But as they agreed to be here, here they ought to be. Don’t you carry a revolver, Smith?”
Smith said that he never had done so, but that he would take the charge of mine if I liked. To this, however, I demurred. “I never part with my pistol to any one,” I said, rather drily. But he explained that he only intended to signify that if there were danger to be encountered, he would be glad to encounter it; and I fully believed him. “We shan’t have much fighting,” I replied; “but if there be any, the tool will come readiest to the hand of its master. But if you mean to remain here long I would advise you to get one. These Orientals are a people with whom appearances go a long way, and, as a rule, fear and respect mean the same thing with them. A pistol hanging over your loins is no great trouble to you, and looks as though you could bite. Many a dog goes through the world well by merely showing his teeth.”
And then my companion began to talk of himself. “He did not,” he said, “mean to remain in Syria very long.”
“Nor I either,” said I. “I have done with this part of the world for the present, and shall take the next steamer from Jaffa for Alexandria. I shall only have one night in Jerusalem on my return.”
After this he remained silent for a few moments and then declared that that also had been his intention. He was almost ashamed to say so, however, because it looked as though he had resolved to hook himself on to me. So he answered, expressing almost regret at the circumstance.
“Don’t let that trouble you,” said I; “I shall be delighted to have your company. When you know me better, as I hope you will do, you will find that if such were not the case I should tell you so as frankly. I shall remain in Cairo some little time; so that beyond our arrival in Egypt, I can answer for nothing.”
He said that he expected letters at Alexandria which would govern his future movements. I thought he seemed sad as he said so, and imagined, from his manner, that he did not expect very happy tidings. Indeed I had made up my mind that he was by no means free from care or sorrow. He had not the air of a man who could say of himself that he was “totus teres atque rotundus.” But I had no wish to inquire, and the matter would have dropped had he not himself added—“I fear that I shall meet acquaintances in Egypt whom it will give me no pleasure to see.”
“Then,” said I, “if I were you, I would go to Constantinople instead;—indeed, anywhere rather than fall among friends who are not friendly. And the nearer the friend is, the more one feels that sort of thing. To my way of thinking, there is nothing on earth so pleasant as a pleasant wife; but then, what is there so damnable as one that is unpleasant?”
“Are you a married man?” he inquired. All his questions were put in a low tone of voice which seemed to give to them an air of special interest, and made one almost feel that they were asked with some special view to one’s individual welfare. Now the fact is, that I am a married man with a family; but I am not much given to talk to strangers about my domestic concerns, and, therefore, though I had no particular object in view, I denied my obligations in this respect. “No,” said I; “I have not come to that promotion yet. I am too frequently on the move to write myself down as Paterfamilias.”
“Then you know nothing about that pleasantness of which you spoke just now?”