“What say gentleman? Third-class! No! No! Not go third-class. Second-class one hundred thirty piasters very poor.”
“But there is a third-class, isn’t there?”
“Third-class go. Forty piasters. But only for Arabs. White man never go third-class. Not give food, not give sleep, not ride on steamer; ride on barge there, tied to steamer with string. All gentlemen telling me must have European food. Gentlemen not sleep with boxes and horses on barge? Very Arab; very bad smell.”
“Yes, I know; but give me a third-class ticket,” I interrupted, counting out forty piasters.
The native blinked, sat down sadly on his stool, and with a sigh reached for a ticket. Suddenly his face lighted up, and he pushed my money back to me.
“If white man go third-class,” he crowed, “must have pass. Not can sell ticket without.”
“But how can I get a pass?”
“There is living English colonel with fort the other side of Assuan. Can get pass from him.”
I hurried away to the railroad station. The fare to Assuan was a few cents, and one train went each way during the afternoon. But it made the up trip first! I struck out on foot down the railroad, raced through Assuan, and tore my way to the fort, which was three miles below the village. A squad of black men dressed in khaki uniforms flourished their bayonets uncomfortably near my ribs. I bawled out my errand in Arabic, and an officer waved the guard aside.
“The colonel is sleeping now,” he said; “come this evening.”