“I see no reason to refuse you a passport,” said the mudir, in his deliberate, clear-cut enunciation. “By the way, one other question which the law requires me to ask. Of course you have sufficient means to support yourself in Khartum, or to pay your way down again?”
“I’ve got three piastres,” I answered, striving to conceal the joy within me.
“What! No more?”
He turned the paper meditatively in his fingers.
“As a rule, we do not grant passports to those who may by any chance find themselves unprovided for. It is a precaution necessary for the protection of the individual, for Khartum is a far-call from civilization. But then, I am not going to keep you back if you wish to go. I have an infinite faith, justified by years of observation, in the ability of a sailor, especially a young chap, to take care of himself.” He pressed his official seal on a red pad and examined it intently. Fate, evidently, was bent on sending me to Khartum. I resolved to take a more active hand in the game.
“Well, a couple of chaps I was talkin’ with in Wady give the place a tough name, too, sir,” I began. “You see, I didn’t know that when I was down below, and since then I’ve been thinkin’, sir, that it would be a bad port to get on the beach in.”
“And these Greeks, are you certain they will employ you? Did they give their address?”
“They didn’t give no address, sir, only said they was goin’ to Khartum. I was thinkin’ it would be better to get down to Port Saïd and ship out, instead of goin’ up. But the ticket’s already bought, sir, an’—”
Arab passengers on the Nile steamer. Except for their prayers, they scarcely move once a day