“Work?” roared the chorus. “Work in Cairo—and a real American—Ist’s denn ein Esel?” (“Is he a jackass?”)
I ate a tiny supper and crawled away to bed. For two days following I tramped even greater distances, without success. But, in a side street in which sprawled and squalled so many Arabian babies that I couldn’t count them, I came upon the mission building called the Asile Rudolph. Glad to escape from the beggar colony at last, I tugged at a bell-rope that hung from a brick wall. A bare-legged Arab let me in. The superintendent, seated in the office, welcomed me. He was a lively Englishman about fifty years old. He had long been a captain on the Black Sea, and was still known to everybody as “Cap” Stevenson.
There was something more than bed and board for the lucky lodgers of the Asile Rudolph. The mission had a new shower bath! It was closed during the day; but, as I was never the last to finish the evening meal, I would get inside the wooden closet first; and it was only the argument that the stream could be put to even better use among my companions that saved me from a watery grave.
I looked for work for five days longer. No tourist ever peeped into half the strange corners to which my wanderings led me. I learned the Arabic language rapidly, too; for the servants of Cairo seemed to hate workmen of my race; and the necessity of speaking my mind to them made me learn new words every day.
Rich or penniless, however, there must be something wrong with any one who does not enjoy the winter in Cairo. Here one never has to change his plans on account of the weather, for Egypt is always flooded with joyous sunshine. There is much to see, too, in this city of the Nile. If you take a walk to the Esbekieh Gardens, you can hear a band concert at any time, and Arabians are always performing queer tricks out there. At all hours of the day, people of great wealth are driving about in the gardens, while the crowds stand watching them. At times the Khedive and his guard thunder by. Now and then the shout of Cairo’s most famous runner tells us that the Khedive’s master, Lord Cromer, is coming near. There is always enough to see—but not enough to eat.
Carriage runners of Cairo, clearing the streets for their master.
One day, while wandering sadly away across the city, I stumbled upon the offices of the American ambassador. I managed to fight my way into the presence of the consul-general himself, and told him of my experiences in Cairo.
“If you are willing to do any kind of work,” he said, “I can give you employment at once.”
I told him that any kind of work would be welcome.