CHAPTER XIV
STEALING A MARCH ON THE FAR EAST
All through that month of February in Cairo I studied the posters of the steamship companies to learn what ships were sailing eastward; for I hoped to get work on one of them as a sailor, and continue my trip around the world. While I was in the train on my way to Port Said, I saw four giant steamers gliding southward through the canal, so close that I could read from my window the books in the hands of the passengers under the awnings. How fortunate those people seemed to me! They were already on their way east, while I was still crawling slowly along the edge of the desert. Gladly would I have exchanged places with the dirtiest workman on board.
I wanted to go to Bombay; but I should have been glad to escape from that neck of sand in almost any direction. Not that there weren’t ships enough—they passed the canal in hundreds every week. But their sailors were yellow men or brown, and they anchored well out in the middle of the stream, where a white sailor might not go to ask for work.
All this I thought of as I crawled through the African desert behind a wheezing locomotive. But one solemn promise I made to myself before the first hut of Port Said bobbed up across the sand—that I would escape from this place somehow, on something, be it coal-barge or raft, before its streets and alleys became such eye-sores as had once those of Marseilles.
I reached Port Said. After dinner I hurried away to the shipping quarter. As I had expected, no sailors were wanted. I went to ask advice of the American consul.
“A man without money in this place,” he said, “is here to stay, I fear. We haven’t signed on a sailor since I was sent here. If you ever make a get-away, it will be by hiding on one of the steamers. I can’t advise you to do it, of course. But if I were in your shoes I’d stow away on the first boat homeward bound, and do it at once, before summer comes along and sends you to the hospital.”
Early the next morning I saw a great steamer nosing her way among the smaller boats that swarmed about the mouth of the canal. She looked so much like the Warwickshire that I half expected to see my former mess-mates peering over her rail. I made out the name on her bow as she dropped anchor in the middle of the canal. Then I turned to a near-by poster to find out more about her.
“S. S. Worcestershire,” ran the notice. “Largest, fastest steamer sailing from England to British Burma. First-class passengers only. Fare to Colombo, one hundred eighty dollars.”
A sister ship of the vessel that had brought me from Marseilles! The very sight of her made me think of the prime roasts we had had while crossing the Mediterranean. I hurried down to the landing-stage, and spoke to the officers as they left the ship with the tourists for a run ashore.
“Full up, Jack,” answered one of them.