“I am an American.”
The entire party, including the Jew, burst into a roaring laugh so suddenly that two black boys who had been peering in upon us scampered away down the street.
An Arab café in Old Cairo.
“Amerikaner! Ja! Ja!” shrieked the merry-makers. “Certainly! We are all Americans. But what are you when you tell the truth to your good comrades? Amerikaner! Ha! Ha!”
The first speaker beat a tattoo on the table with his cane, and the others became quiet. Plainly he was the leader of the company.
“Now, then,” he cried, as if I had the right by the rules of “the union” to give two answers, “what country are you from?”
I repeated that I was an American.
“So you are an American really?” he demanded suddenly in clear English.
He thought I would not understand him; but a long reply in my own language proved that I did. The others, however, grinned unbelievingly and fell to chattering again.