The view of Jerusalem from my window in the Jewish hotel
Sellers of oranges and bread in Jerusalem. Notice Standard Oil can
Had the low comedian of a Broadway burlesque suddenly appeared in full regalia amid these Oriental surroundings, I should have been far less astonished than at the strange being who pounced down upon me. He was tall, this American consul, tall as any man who hoped to be ranked as a man could venture to be, spare of shank as the contortionist who drives the envious small boy to bathe himself in angle-worm oil in the secret recesses of the barn for the fortnight succeeding circus day—and he was excited. Several other things he was as well—among them, a Frenchman, and, despite his efforts, none but the words of his native tongue would go forth from his lips—and that foreign jargon it was not my place, as a common sailor, to understand. He stood framed in the doorway of the dining-room—though, to be frank, the frame was a good six inches too short, and wrinkled the picture sadly—and between whirlwind gusts of red hot Gaelic, tore at his dancing mane.
“Sacré nom d’un chien!—to be disturbed entre le dessert et le fromage—by a sunburned, muddy wretch—and with a knapsack!—Un misérable court-le-monde, mille tonnerres!—Un sans-sous—and these fellows were always after money—”
Had I been able to understand him, I might have protested. As it was, what more could I do than try to rush a word across the track where one train of invectives broke off and another began:—
“Say, mister, be youse the Amurican consil—?”
But the words were mercilessly ground under the wheels;—
“—And where should he get this money?—Mille diables!—Was he a millionaire because he was consul for a few countries?—Un vagabond!—Par le—”
“Say, mister, can’t youse talk English?”