“I know how you feel though,” he went on, “I was the same once. When I ran away from Germany—to escape the army—I wouldn’t take a cent I hadn’t earned; and I starved a month in Pietermaritzburg, looking for work as you are here, before I got over my silly notions. Ach! I was an ass! I tell you it’s no use. You won’t find work—especially in those rags. If you will work, let me take you where you can get some clothes first.”
It was all too evident that he was right. Weather-beaten garments might pass muster in the wilderness of Palestine, but they were wholly out of place in the Paris of Africa. Twice that day, those who had refused me employment had offered to fit me out in their cast-off clothing. I concluded to profit by the experience of Pia.
The German abandoned the composition of pathetic short stories for an hour next morning to conduct me to the Secretary of the “Cairo Aid Society,” a minister of the Church of England. Having pointed out the rectory, he left me without a sign of recognition, and marched unfalteringly down the street until he vanished behind the next row of houses. I mounted the broad steps and pressed the electric button. A jet-black Arab opened the door.
“I want to see the Reverend ——,” I began.
“Very sorry, but Reverend —— not in,” replied the servant, with a flash of ivory teeth in a very friendly smile.
“When will he be in?”
“Ah! Reverend —— gone to Iskanderia. No can tell. Come back maybe three day, maybe week,” and the black face grew so sorrowful with pity that I hastened to leave, lest tears should begin to flow.
The German was awaiting me about four steps from the spot where he had disappeared at a brisk walk.
“You’re back soon,” he said, “what luck?”
“He is not in.”