“Anglais—angl—engl—Engleesh—certainly he could parle Engleesh!—But to be called from dinner avant le demi-tasse—An American?—yes, yes, oui—certainment, American consul—and to be called out—Sailor, hein!—Aha! Quoi?—From Jerusa—Couldn’t be—no train—hein?—walk?—diable!—non!—impossible!—Comment?—consul in Jerusalem told—Par le barbe de—Help me?—A poor Jaffa consul with no salary help a man sent by the Jerusalem consul who drew des millards de francs!—le coquin—Hein?—Quoi?—My paper that?—A ragged sailor with a letter from the Secretary of State?—Un vagabond?—coming during dinner—Quoi?—my letter?—Quelle histoire—what a lie!—elle était volée!—Oui—If he did his duty, he would keep it for the lawful owner—elle était volée—still, he would—”
He certainly would, for I had already twisted it out of his hands.
“Diable!—Quoi?—Write letter to the cap!—didn’t know him!—ship’s agent—hein? certainly—one of his best friends—write letter?—of course—but the din—and money?—Hein?—Quoi?—dis donc!—Pas d’argent?—no money?—vraiment!—sailor, and not want money!—Sainte Vierge au—Note?—certainly—at once—why hadn’t I said long ago—No!—no!—n’importe!—not the least harm done—wasn’t hungry anyway—appetite very poor—only a note?—pas d’ar—Delighted to know me—my letter?—certainly it was my letter—Never doubted it for a moment—Would I take a demi-tasse?—No?—Hurry?—of course—at once!”—and he was gone.
A moment later the clerk handed me an unfolded note and I hurried away to the wharf, a half-mile distant. The ship still rode at anchor. I rushed to the wicket and presented the epistle. Why had I not been warned that Jaffa was the refuge of worn-out comic opera stars? The agent who peered out at me wore a glass eye, a headdress of the Middle Ages, and—by the beard of Allah!—a celluloid nose.
His face puckered up as he read the missive—all, that is, except the nose, which preserved a noncommital serenity. “Ah!” he snored, drawing out a ticket from the rack, “Very well! The fare is twelve francs.”
“The fare? But doesn’t the consul ask you to give me a berth as a sailor?”
The noseless one pushed the note towards me. It was in French, but a warning whistle from the harbor made me forget my ignorance of that language. The letter was as upset in construction as the consul had been when he noted my name. It ran:—
Dear Friend:—
The bearer, Harris Frank, is an American sailor who wishes to go to Egypt. Will you kindly sell him a ticket and oblige, your humble, etc., etc.
____ ____,