“What say gentleman? Third-class! No! No! Not go third-class. Second-class one hundred and eighty piastres, very poor.”
“But there is a third-class, isn’t there?”
“Third-class go. Forty piastres. But only for Arabs. White man never go third-class. Not give food, not give sleep, not ride on steamer; ride on barge there, tied with steamer with string. All gentlemen telling me must have European food. Gentlemen not sleep with boxes and horses on barge? Very Arab; very stink—”
“Yes, I know; but give me a third-class ticket,” I interrupted, counting out forty piastres.
The native blinked, sat down dejectedly on his stool, and, with a sigh of resignation, reached for a ticket. Suddenly his face lighted up and he pushed my money back to me.
“If white man go third-class,” he crowed, “must have pass of Soudan gover’ment. Not can sell ticket without.”
“But how can I get a pass before I am in the Soudan?”
“There is living English colonel with fort, far side Assuan.”
I hurried away to the railway station. The fare to Assuan was a few cents, and one train ran each way during the afternoon. But it made the up-trip first! I struck out on the railroad, raced through Assuan, and tore my way through the jungle to the fort, three miles below the village. A squad of khaki-clad black men flourished their bayonets uncomfortably near my ribs. I bawled out my errand in Arabic, and an officer waved the sentinels aside.
“The colonel is sleeping now,” he said; “come this evening.”