Sais or carriage runners of Cairo, clearing the streets for their master
“It’s the Moosky,” said the German. “Good old lane. Many a piastre I’ve picked up in her.”
He dodged into a side alley, jogged over a street, and entered the headquarters of “die Kameraden.” It was a wine shop with connecting kitchen, on the lower floor of a four-story building; just such a rendezvous as one finds in Germany. A shuffling Jew was drawing beer and wine for several groups of noisy faranchees at the tables, to the accompaniment of a continual jabber in Yiddish to which the tipplers replied, now and then, in German. A long-unwashed female wandered in from the back room with a steaming plate of meat and potatoes.
“Der Jude has lodgings,” said my companion, pointing at the ceiling. “Three small piastres. You can still eat a small piastre worth.”
Great impression two and a half cents would have made on an all-day appetite! Almost before I realized it, I had called for a supper that took my last copper.
By the time I finished eating, the “comrades” were demanding the biography of “der Ankömmling.” As all the party spoke German, I gave an abbreviated account of myself in that language.
“And what countryman are you?” asked a youth at a neighboring table.
“Ich bin Amerikaner.”
The entire party, the Jew included, burst into uproarious laughter so suddenly that two black urchins, peering in upon us, took to their heels.