The remark precipitated a long debate. At last, the interpreter turned to me with a smiling face.
“We have it!” he cried. “As the mudir has refused you permission, perhaps he will refund you the price of the ticket if you go and ask him? That will be enough—”
“But the ticket isn’t mine,” I protested.
“Not yours?” cried the Armenian, “what nonsense! Of course it’s yours. Whose else is it? The patriarch didn’t pay you anything else for your work! Certainly, it’s your ticket.”
He took it from the sad-eyed hotel keeper and thrust it into my hand. “Now run over to the mudiria and ask the governor if he can’t fix it so you can get the money back.”
I ran—past the mudir’s office and into that of the traffic manager. He was a young Englishman of the type of those who, according to Pia, “have nothing much to do with their money.”
“Do you think,” he asked, as he handed me the price of the ticket, “that two quid will carry you down to Port Saïd?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“I’m afraid it won’t,” he went on; “better have another quid.”
He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a handful of gold.