The Greek patriarch whose secretary I became—temporarily
“Oh,” smiled the mudir, “that will offer no difficulty. It is a government railway and I can give you a note to the A. T. M., requesting him to refund you the price of the ticket. On the whole, after what you have said, I think I had better refuse you a pass.”
He tore up the blank slowly and, pulling out an official pad, wrote an order to the railway official. I tucked it in my pocket and returned to the hotel.
“What’s the matter?” cried the Armenian, as I sat down with sorrowful face in a corner of the pool room.
“The mudir has refused me a pass to Khartum,” I sighed.
“Refused you a pass?” echoed the Armenian, turning to the Greeks that had gathered around us.
Cries of sympathy sounded on all sides.
“Never mind,” purred the interpreter, patting me on the shoulder, “Khartum isn’t much and the patriarch will get along somehow without you.”
“Yes, but there’s no work here to earn my fare down the river.”