A sister ship of the vessel that had rescued me from Marseilles! The very sight of her was reminiscent of the prime roasts we had been wont to serve the fishes of the Mediterranean. I hastened to the landing stage and accosted the officers as they disembarked, with the tourists, for a run ashore.
“Full up, Jack,” answered one of them.
I recalled the advice of the American consul. A better craft to “stick away on” would never drop anchor in the canal. Bah! How ludicrous the notion sounded! The Khedive himself could not even have boarded such a vessel, in sun-bleached corduroys and Nazarene slippers. By night, with no moon? The blackest night could not hide such rags! Besides, the steamer was sure to coal and be gone within a couple of hours. I trained my kodak upon her, and turned sorrowfully away.
A native fair was in full swing at the far end of the town. Amid the snake-charmers and shameless dancers, the incident of the morning was soon forgotten. Darkness was falling when I strolled back towards the harbor. At the shop where spitted mutton sold cheaply, I halted for supper; but the keeper had put up his shutters. No doubt he was sowing his year’s earnings among the gamblers at the fair. Hungrily I wandered on, turned into the main street of the European section, and stopped stock still, dumb with astonishment. The vista beyond the canal was still cut off by the vast bulk of the Worcestershire!
What an opportunity—if once I could get on board! Perhaps I might! In the terms of the paddock, it was “a hundred-to-one shot;” but who could say when better odds would be chalked up? A quartermaster was almost sure to halt me at the gang plank. Some palpable excuse I must offer him for being rowed out to the steamer. If only I had something to be delivered on board, a basket of fruit, or—shades of Cairo!—of course—a letter of introduction!
Breathlessly, I dashed into the Home, snatched a sheet of paper and an envelope from the Maltese youth, and scribbled an appeal for employment, in any capacity. Having sealed the envelope against the prying eyes of subordinates, I addressed it in a flourishing hand to the chief steward.
But my knapsack? Certainly I could not carry that on board! I dumped the contents on the floor and thrust the kodak and my papers into an inside pocket. There was nothing else—but hold! That bundle at the bottom? The minister’s frock coat, of broadcloth, with wide, silk-faced lapels! What kind fairy had gainsaid my reiterated threats to throw away that useless garment? Eagerly I slipped into it. The very thing! With my unshaven face and bleached legs in the shadow, I could rival Beau Brummel himself. Many an English lord, touring in the East, wears a cap after nightfall.
“Scrape that stuff together for me,” I bawled, springing past the Maltese youth. “If I don’t turn up within a week, give ’em to the beachcombers.”
The Worcestershire was still at anchor. Two Arab boatmen squatted under a torch on one corner of the landing stage. The legal fare was six pence. I had three. It cost me some precious moments to beat down one of the watermen. He stepped into his felucca at last and pushed off cautiously towards the rows of lighted portholes.
As we neared the steamer, I made out a figure in uniform on the lowest step of the ship’s ladder. The game was lost! I might have talked my way by a quartermaster, but I certainly could not pass this bridge officer.