Our voices carried less as the wind rose, and it was evident even to Madunnah that words were wasted. The rain drove in torrents; it was bitterly cold, and growing darker every moment; as the two boats turned their heads towards the wave-swept cargo we realized that it was night, that all chance of getting on board was at an end for that day at least, and we set our backs to the sea.
There still remained one alternative and a last chance of getting to Gibraltar for Christmas Day: the steamer might not leave till the following morning, and, taking shelter for the night in the Customs House on the beach, we ought to be able to get on board at daybreak. We turned off to the left through blinding gushes of rain, and headed for this refuge.
A Moorish Prison Gate.
The Customs House was much like a caravanserai: an open space in the middle was enclosed by sheds for mules and asses; a rough stair led to the living-rooms, above the sheds, which opened on to a flat white roof. We stumbled up on to the roof; then in under a low doorway into a little wooden lean-to, where an old Jew caretaker was living. The rest of the place was given over to a family of Israelites, who had come down to "the seaside" from Tetuan for change of air.
Much to our relief, the old Jew caretaker assured us that the steamer would be landing cargo till noon on the following day: he offered us everything he had in his power for that night, and promised to see us off in a boat the next day. Committing us to his care, Mr. Bewicke left us and rode back to Tetuan with the mules and Madunnah; our baggage was stowed away under shelter; and the old Jew, finding a light and improvising two seats out of boxes and matting, sat us down at his little table, with a bit of frayed linoleum on it and a glass.
The roof leaked and the rain beat on to the linoleum, but we were in snug quarters after the beach, and our friendly host began boiling up a great black kettle in a tiny inner room, assisted by a Moor. He was very rheumatic, the old man, also very deaf, and Martine must have been a damp spot for him (the river and marshes close at hand, and east or west wind, both of them heavy with moisture—nothing would dry, hung out in the air at Tetuan); nor were his quarters rain-proof.
He hobbled backwards and forwards, muffled up in a worn grey handkerchief, with a fortnight's white stubble on his chin, and an aged greenish overcoat down to his slippers.
From the recesses of a bunk in the next shelter, where he slept, he produced some pink china cups; then returned with a plate of bread, hardened to the consistency of biscuit, and smelling strongly of aniseed. After that he made tea in a little brown earthenware teapot—sweet green tea with mint—and we soon thawed under a succession of cups. Still he stumbled about, hunting out of a cupboard a small basket of eggs, and in the next room a great stirring and beating-up followed.
By-and-by the Moor who had been assisting him appeared with an omelette; it was dark brown, mixed thick with aniseed, chopped ham, and parsley; nor was it easy to dispose of it.
