American Consular Agent.
A letter authorizing the company to sell me a ticket that it would have been delighted to sell to any species of man or ape who had the money! It was as valuable as a letter from the mayor of New York would be in buying a subway ticket! I dumped my possessions recklessly on the floor and sped away to the hotel at a pace that spilled four natives in the mire, by actual count. The consul was as raving as before. He had just lain down for his siesta and was convinced that I had repented my refusal to ask for money. A few words reassured him. He fidgeted while I explained the desired wording of the new note; and I was soon speeding back to the owner of the junk-shop face.
He read the new communication after the leisurely way of the East, and said:—“Well, as a sailor we can give you a ticket at half-price—six francs.”
I snatched the note out of his hand. The goblins catch that scatter-brained consul! He had unburdened himself as follows:—
Dear Friend:—
The bearer, Frank Harris, is an American sailor without funds who wishes to go to Egypt. Kindly sell him a ticket as cheaply as possible, and oblige, etc., etc.
—— ——,
American Consular Agent.
Utterly indifferent to the rain, I sat down against a pillar outside the office. Four paltry francs rattled in my pocket. Long, penniless days on the Jaffa beach seemed my promised lot. Stevedores were struggling to breast the towering waves. Now and then a giant comber overturned a laden rowboat high on the beach. Barefooted natives waded into the surf with tourists in their arms. Each warning whistle seemed to thrust Egypt further and further away. If only—
I felt a tap on the shoulder. A young native in the uniform of Gook and Son was bending over me.