“Well, now, I guess you are a gentleman?”
To this I answered—
“Thanks; I trust your surmise is a correct one;” and I might have said, but I did not, “Sorry I cannot return the compliment.”
I have often heard of the pertinacity of an American reporter, but it appears to me that the bump of inquisitiveness is not by any means confined to them, but pervades the whole community. There was no shilly-shallying, no delicate, nicely-worded hints and adroitly-put questions; but my interrogator was determined to find out all about me if he could, and so he asked me how long I had been in Cairo, how old I was, if I was married or single, how many children I had, if I lived on my money, and lots of the most impertinent questions, and finally finished up by saying, “Guess you are a Britisher?”
Having, as he thought, pumped me pretty considerably, he was good enough to take me into his confidence, and tell me all about himself, and his belongings, and “hew his father had left him a pile,” adding, “Guess I spend some, and move about a bit.” I could not help saying—
“I think you are wise to pursue that course; travel will improve you a good deal, and, like the marble statuary in the Baulac Museum, it will put on a little polish.”
He eulogised the States and the inhabitants thereof, and was apparently under the impression that America was the only place worth speaking of, winding up with the quite unnecessary announcement—
“I’m ’Merican.”
“Oh, yes,” I replied; “I knew at once you were an American.”