“What time do we start?” he asked.
“At ten-thirty,” was the reply, “so that you can get a bite of breakfast and forty winks, at least.”
The scientist had little sympathy with what he considered the lad’s foolishness in staying up all night with Quinward, but he knew that nothing would be gained by saying so, and, besides, he realized that this persistence on the lad’s part was a sign of character. To Perry, the whole night had been too wonderful even to talk about, and he tumbled into a sleep so profound that when his uncle wakened him, an hour and a half later, it took the lad a minute or two to decide whether he was in old Egypt or in the new.
Rubbing his eyes, and yawning, for he was still fearfully tired, as much from the reaction as the fatigue, he walked over to the window, to look out over the Pyramids. There, immediately in front of the hotel, was a caravan of fourteen camels, and among the drivers, directing operations, was Arnold Wyr.
“Oh!” cried Perry, “is that our caravan?” His uncle nodded.
“Say!” ejaculated Perry, and splashed cold water on his face, “we’re really off!”
“Just waiting for you,” the leader of the expedition responded. “I gave you the chance to sleep right to the very last minute.”
The rest of Perry’s dressing operations resembled a motion picture film run at full speed, and in little more than a minute he was in full kit and a-tiptoe with eagerness to be away. He took the stairs two at a stride, far too excited to wait for the elevator, much to the amusement of the residents of the hotel, enervated by the Egyptian climate.
“Oh, Mr. Wyr,” he cried, as he dashed out, “which is my camel?”
The Englishman turned to the head camel driver.