I guessed this must be Jakoub, who had sat next us in the boat, but whom I could not be said to have seen, and to whom I had not yet spoken.
“Sa’ida Effendi,” he said gravely as I approached him. He made his dignified salaam, touching his forehead, lips and breast with a gesture that surprised me, for it was so like the Christian ceremony of crossing one’s self.
“Good morning,” I said; “do you speak English?”
“I speak all the languages. They are alike to me.”
“You are—er—Jakoub?”
I knew no other name for him, but I was honestly afraid of being unduly familiar in addressing him by his—whatever the Mohammedan equivalent of a Christian name may be.
“I am your Excellency’s servant—Jakoub,” he replied.
He seemed to wait for me to continue the conversation if I wanted to; but would evidently be quite unembarrassed if no more were said. I uttered the usual futility about the morning.
“It is, sir, ver’ beautiful,” he replied. “Your English sea can be sometimes beautiful, but it is not so often.”
He politely offered me the wheel, asking if I would like to steer. I took it from him. Being better used to a tiller, I did not at first find my touch, and allowed a following sea to break square on our counter. A heavy dash of spray wetted us both, but Jakoub only smiled politely at my vexation.