The consul chose a card from his case, turned it over, and wrote on the back:
Tom: Let Franck do it.
“Take this,” he said, “to my home; it is opposite that of Lord Cromer, near the Nile. Give it to my butler.”
“Tom,” the butler, was a young American. I came upon him dancing blindly around the ball-room of Mr. Morgan’s residence, and shouting himself hoarse in Arabic at the servants under his charge. The consul, I was told, was to give a dinner, with dancing, to the society people wintering in the city. In the two days that were left before the evening of the party, the ball-room floor must be properly waxed. Twelve Arabic workmen had been puttering around in the dance-hall doing almost nothing since early morning. About them was spread powdered wax; in their hands were long bottles; above them towered the dancing butler.
“Put some strength into it!” he shouted, as I stepped across the room toward him.
A thirteenth “workman,” who had been hired to squat in a far corner and furnish musical encouragement, began to sing. For the next three strokes the dozen bottles, moving together in time with the tune, nearly crushed the powdered wax under them. But this unusual show of energy did not last long.
I delivered the written message. Tom read it. “I’ll fire ’um!” he bellowed. The Arabs bounded half across the room at his shriek. “I’ll fire ’um now! An American? I’m delighted, old man! Get after this job while I chase these fellows downstairs. Had any experience at this game?”
I thought of a far-off college gymnasium, and nodded.
“Take your own time, only so you get it done,” cried the butler, chasing out the fleeing Arabs.
I tossed aside the bottles, and fixed up a tool of my own with which to rub the floor. By evening the polishing was half done. When I turned my attention to the dust-streaked windows, late the next afternoon, the ball-room floor was too slippery to be safe for any but sure-footed dancers.