I protested, however, that I had come to Cairo to work rather than to weave “fairy tales.”
“Work?” he shouted, throwing aside his pen and springing to his feet, “A fellow who can write and talk English—and German, too, wants to work in Cairo? Why, mein lieber Kerl, you—you—” but the words stuck in his astonished throat.
I descended to the street and set out to visit such European contractors as I could locate. Long after dark, foot-sore and half-famished, covered with the dust of Cairo, I returned to the rendezvous and sat down at one of the tables. It was quite evident that die Kunde were neither foot-sore nor hungry, and their garments were as immaculate as second-hand garments can be made. The “wise ones” had loafed in the cafés and gardens, had written a letter or told a hard-luck story somewhere, and turned up at night with money enough to make merry through the whole evening. I, having tramped all day, from one address to another, turned up with—an appetite.
Otto Pia watched me, with a half-smile on his countenance, for some time after I had entered. Then he raised his cane and rapped on the table for silence.
“Ei! Gute Kamaraden!” he cried, “I have something to show you! Guk’ mal! Here is a comrade who is an American—do you hear—a real American, not a patched-up one; and this real American—in Cairo—wants to work!”
“Work?” roared the chorus, “Work in Cairo—and a real American—Lieber Gott—Ist’s denn ein Esel?—”
I ate a meager supper and crawled away to bed. On the following day, I tramped even greater distances, and returned to the wine shop with only the price of a lodging left from the missionary’s donation. Pia rose and took a seat beside me.
“Lot of work you found, eh?” he began. “Didn’t any of them offer you money?”
“Most of them,” I answered.
“And you didn’t take it?” cried the German, “Why, you—you—you’re a disgrace to the union.