From the Pools of Solomon, I returned to Jerusalem. The English resident came next morning with another document, which I returned at noon and, having paid my bill, presented myself at the consulate to announce my departure.
“How much money have you?” asked the consul.
“A ten-franc piece.”
“Good! Now, my lad, take my advice. There is a steamer leaving Jaffa for Egypt to-morrow. Take the afternoon train—ten francs will more than pay your fare—and once in Jaffa perhaps you can get a berth on the steamer. Ask the American consul there to give you his assistance.”
“I can save money by walking,” I ventured.
“Impossible!” cried the consul; “It’s forty miles to Jaffa; the ship leaves at noon, and there is not another for ten days. Take the train. You can’t walk there in time.”
Just to prove that the consul had underestimated my abilities as a pedestrian, I spent half my wealth for a roll of films and struck out on the highway to the coast. Long after dark I usurped lodgings in Latron, the home of the penitent thief, and put off again before daylight, in a pouring rain, across the marshy plain of Sharon. It was nearly noon when I reached the port; but the sea was running mountain high and the task of loading the steamer was proceeding slowly. A native offered to pilot me to the dwelling of the American consul for a few coppers. Urged on by an occasional jab in the ribs, he splashed through the streets, ankle-deep in Jaffa soil in solution, to a large hotel that made great effort to pose as an exclusive faranchee establishment. I dashed into the office in a shower of mud that raised a shriek of horror from the immaculately attired clerk, and called for the consul.
“Impossible!” cried the clerk; “The consul is at dinner.”
Two steps towards the dining-room convinced him that my business was of pressing importance. He snatched wildly at my dripping garments and sent a servant to make known my errand.
