“Go on board anyway,” he said.
“Eh?” I cried.
“The captain is English. If you are a sailor he will give you work.”
“But I can’t get on board,” I answered.
For reply, the native pointed to the tourist-company boat, laden with baggage and mails, at the edge of the wharf. I snatched up my knapsack and dropped into the craft.
The steamer was weighing anchor when I scrambled up the gangway. I fought my way through a chaos of tumbled baggage, seasick natives, and bellowing seamen, and attempted to mount to the bridge. A burly Arab seaman pushed me back. When darkness fell on an open sea I had not yet succeeded in breaking through the bodyguard that surrounded the captain. Writhing natives covered every spot on the open deck. I crawled under the canvas that covered the winch, converted my bundle into a pillow, and fell asleep.
In what seemed a half-hour later I awoke to find the ship gliding along as smoothly as in a river. I crawled out on deck. A bright morning sun was shining, and before my astonished eyes lay Port Saïd. The ticket collector had neglected to look under the winch for passengers.
The steamer was held in quarantine for several hours. I purchased food of a ship’s boy and settled down to await the good will of the port doctors. As I lined up with the rest, to be thumped and prodded by order of His Majesty, the Khedive, a new plan flashed through my mind. The ship was to continue to Alexandria. That port, certainly, gave far easier access to the real Egypt than Port Saïd, and it was an unexplored city. Instead of disembarking with the others, therefore, I sought out the captain once more—and once more was repulsed by a thick-witted seaman.
I returned to the deck and sat down on a hatch. To my dismay, the native purser began to collect the tickets before the last tender was unloaded. He approached me and held out his hand.
“Where can I see the captain?” I demanded.