Never having settled that question entirely to my own satisfaction, I parried it with another: “How do you get a dog if you want one?”
“W—w—w—why,” answered the eldest son, wiping the tears from his eyes, “if anyone wants a dog he tells someone else and they give him one; but who ever WANTS a dog?”
Once the guest of the better-class Arab, the traveler is almost certain to be relayed from one city to another through an endless chain of the friends of his original host. I had announced my intention of leaving Nazareth in the morning. The ex-mayor, after attempting to frighten me out of my project by the usual bear-stories, wrote me four letters of introduction.
“Without these letters,” he explained, “you would not dare stay in Gineen or Nablous, for my friends are the only Christians and those are very bad towns. My friends in Jerusalem and Jaffa—if you ever get there alive—may be able to help you find work.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE WILDS OF PALESTINE
The sun, rising red and clear next morning, put to rout even the protests of Nehmé and Shukry against my departure on Sunday. Elias sorrowfully said farewell at the mission gate. The teachers, carrying between them a package at which they cast mysterious glances now and then, conducted me to the foot of the Nazarene range. Pointing out a guiding mountain peak that rose above Gineen, far across the trackless plain of Esdraelon, they bade me good-by almost tearfully, thrust the package into my hands, and turned back up the mountain pass. Half certain of what the bundle contained, I did not open it until noonday overtook me, well out on the plain. Inside was a goodly supply of gkebis, oranges, native cheeses, and black olives; and at the bottom, a bundle of home-made cigarettes, and a package of “arabee,” with a book of papers.
Late afternoon brought me to the edge of Esdraelon. A veritable garden spot, covered with graceful palms and waving pomegranates and perfumed with the fragrance of orange and lemon groves, covered the lower slope of the peak that had been my phare. Back of the garden stood the fanatical town of Gineen. The appearance of a defenseless unbeliever in their midst aroused its inhabitants to scowls and curses, and a few stones from a group of youngsters at a corner of the bazaar rattled in the streets behind me. My letter was addressed in native script. The squatting shopkeeper to whom I displayed it attempted to scowl me out of countenance, then, recalling his duty of hospitality towards whoever should enter his dwelling, called a passing urchin and, mumbling a few words to him, bade me follow. The urchin mounted the sloping market-place, made several unexpected turnings, and, pointing out a large house surrounded by a forbidding stone wall, scampered away like one accustomed to take no chances of future damnation by lingering at the entrance to a Christian hotbed.
I clanged the heavy knocker until the sound echoed up and down the adjoining streets, and, receiving no response, sat down on the curb. A well-dressed native wandered by and I displayed the letter. He glared at it, muttered “etnashar săă” (twelve o’clock, i. e., nightfall by Arabic reckoning) and continued his way. From time to time visitors paused at neighboring gates or house doors and, standing in the center of the street, lifted up their voices in mournful wails that endured long enough to have given the wailer’s pedigree from the time of Noah; and were finally admitted. Beggars made the rounds, wailing longer and more mournfully than the others, seldom ceasing until a few bread-sheets or coppers were tossed out to them. Bands of females, whose veils may have covered great beauty or the hideous visages of hags, drew up in a circle round me now and then to discuss my personal attractions, and to fill me with the creepy feeling one might experience at a visit of the White Caps or the Klu-Klux Klan.
Full two hours I had squatted against the wall when an old man, in European garb, slowly ascended the street, mumbling to himself as he ran through his fingers a string of yellow beads. He paused at the gate and pulled out a key. I sprang to my feet and handed him the letter. He read it with something of a scowl and, motioning to me to wait, went inside. A long delay followed. At last the gate groaned and gave exit to the ugliest creature in the Arab world. He was a youth of about twenty, as long as a day without bread, and too thin to deflect a ray of light. His shoulders were bowed until his head stuck out at right angles to his body; his long, yellow teeth protruded from his lips; in his one eye was the gleam of the rascal; and his very attitude stamped him as one who hated faranchees with a deadly hatred. Around his lank form hung a half-dozen long, flowing garments as from a hat-rack, and on his head was the coiffure of the Bedouin.
I caught enough of his snarling harangue to know that he was a family domestic ordered to conduct me to the servants’ quarters. On the opposite side of the long street he unlocked a battered door, and admitted me to a hovel furnished with a moth-eaten divan and a pan of dead coals. A dapper young native entered soon after and addressed me in fluent French.