“Work?” gurgled the superintendent, handing back my papers, “The bloody work is off the slate, Yank.”
Was it the Egyptian sun that had made him so merry? Perhaps. But there was more than one bottle, blown with the name of Rheims, scattered in the sand before the hut.
“Yesh,” confided the Englishman, “she’s all over, old cock. We’re goin’ down in the morning. A few dago masons and the coolies will mess about a few weeks more; but all these lads are, hick—‘Sailin’ ’ome to merry England; never more to roam,’” and his voiced pitched and stumbled over the well-known melody. “But the man that comes up to work in this murderin’ sun should be paid for it, boys, even if it’s only a bloomin’ intention. ’Ere, lads, pass the ’at for the Yank. ’E can’t go ’ome to-mor—” but I was gone.
I was still the proud possessor of fifty piastres. That sum could not carry me down to the Mediterranean; for the fare by train to Cairo was sixty-five, and the steamer rate of forty-five did not include food. Moreover, ’tis the true vagabond spirit to push on until the last resource is exhausted; and what a reputation I might win among the Kunde by outstripping the best weaver of Märchen among them!
The railway was ended, but steamers departed twice a week from Shellal, above the barrage. At the landing a swarm of natives were loading a dilapidated barge, and a native agent was dozing behind the bars of a home-made ticket office.
“Yes,” he yawned, in answer to my query, “there is to-night leaving steamer. Soon be here. The fare is two hundred and fifty piastres.”
“Two hun—” I gasped. “Why, that must be first-class.”
“Yes, very first class. But gentleman not wish travel second class?”
“Certainly not. Give me a third-class ticket.”
The Egyptian fell on his feet and stared at me through the grill.