The steamer was about to start when I scrambled on board. I fought my way through a jumble of tumbled baggage, seasick natives, and shouting seamen, and tried to make my way to the captain. A huge seaman pushed me back. When darkness fell on an open sea I had not yet succeeded in reaching him. Squirming natives covered every spot on the open deck. I crawled under a canvas, used my bundle for a pillow, and fell asleep.
In what seemed about half an hour later I awoke to find the ship gliding along as smoothly as on a river. I crawled out on deck. A bright morning sun was shining, and before my astonished eyes lay Port Said.
The ship glided on. It was bound for Alexandria. I went to find the captain once more—and once more was pushed back by the brawny seaman.
I returned to the deck and sat down. To my horror, the Arabian purser began to collect the tickets. He came near me and held out his hand.
“Where can I see the captain?” I demanded.
“M’abarafshee” (“I cannot understand”), he answered in Arabic, shaking his head. “Bilyeto!” (“ticket!”)
Certainly I must give some excuse for being on board without a ticket. I rummaged through my pockets for the consul’s note, spread it out, and laid it in the purser’s hand. Its yellow color looked disturbingly out of place on the collection of dark blue tickets. The officer poured forth his astonishment in a torrent of Arabic.
“M’abarafshee!” I mocked.
He opened his mouth to send forth another torrent, paused, scratched his head, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, went on gathering bilyetos from the native passengers.
Some time later he climbed down from the upper deck, and, beckoning to me, led the way to the captain. The latter, a huge Briton, stormed back and forth across the ship, striving to give orders to the native crew in such Arabic as he could call to mind—but breaking into violent English with every fourth word to rage at the sailors for their stupidity. His eye fell upon me.