Dicky laid his head back and laughed noiselessly. “My dear Renshaw, with all Europe worrying Ismail, with France in the butler’s pantry and England at the front door, do the bowab and the sarraf go out to take air on the housetops, and watch the sun set on the Pyramids and make a rainbow of the desert? I am the bowab and the sarraf, the man-of-all-work, the Jack-of-all-trades, the ‘confidential’ to the Oriental spendthrift. Am I a dog to bay the moon—have I the soul of a tourist from Liverpool or Poughkeepsie?”
The lanky Southerner gripped his arm. “There’s a hunting song of the South,” he said, “and the last line is, ‘The hound that never tires.’ You are that, Donovan Pasha—”
“I am ‘little Dicky Donovan,’ so they say,” interrupted the other.
“You are the weight that steadies things in this shaky Egypt. You are you, and you’ve brought me out here because there’s work of some kind to do, and because—”
“And because you’re an American, and we speak the same language.”
“And our Consulate is all right, if needed, whatever it is. You’ve played a square game in Egypt. You’re the only man in office who hasn’t got rich out of her, and—”
“I’m not in office.”
“You’re the power behind the throne, you’re—”
“I’m helpless—worse than helpless, Yankee. I’ve spent years of my life here. I’ve tried to be of some use, and play a good game for England; and keep a conscience too, but it’s been no real good. I’ve only staved off the crash. I’m helpless, now. That’s why I’m here.”
He leaned forward, and looked out of the minaret and down towards the great locked gates of the empty mosque.