I put off again before daylight, in a pouring rain, across a marshy plain. It was nearly noon when I reached port; but the sea was running mountain-high, and the task of loading the steamer was going on slowly. A native offered for a few coppers to guide me to the American consul. Together we rushed through the streets, ankle-deep in soft mud, and stopped at last before a large hotel. I dashed into the office and called for the consul.
“Impossible!” cried the clerk. “The consul is at dinner.”
I started toward the dining-room. The clerk snatched wildly at my dripping garments, and sent a servant to tell the consul I wanted to speak to him.
A moment later a very tall American consul stood framed in the doorway before me—though, to be sure, the frame was a good six inches too short and wrinkled the picture sadly. He was a Frenchman, and so excited because he had been disturbed “before the wine” that he could think of no words but those in his own language. While he scolded me violently he tore at his hair. It was long before I could induce him to listen to me. When he finally understood that I wanted merely a note to the ship’s agent, he became more friendly and said he would write it at once.
A moment later the clerk handed me an unfolded note, and I rushed away to the wharf a half mile distant. The ship was still there. I hurried to the office window, and thrust the letter through the opening. Even in my hurry I could not fail to notice that the agent who peered out at me wore a glass eye—and a celluloid nose!
His face puckered up as he read the note. “Ah!” he said, drawing a ticket from the rack. “Very well! The fare is twelve francs.”
“The fare? But doesn’t the consul ask you to let me work for my passage as a sailor?”
He pushed the note toward me. It was in French. I heard a warning whistle from the harbor! The letter was written in a scrawl:
Dear Friend:
The bearer, Harris Franck, is an American sailor who wishes to go to Egypt. Will you kindly sell him a ticket and oblige your humble, etc., etc.