When Mr. Perkins came aboard he announced that the bales of rugs were all on the dock and ready to load without delay. I was much interested in our queer cargo, for it seemed strange to me that Americans should ship “Oriental” rugs to the Orient, to be purchased there by Americans and brought back home again. But Uncle Naboth, who had been through the mills at Germantown, explained the matter very clearly.
“You see,” he said, “there ain’t enough genooine Oriental rugs left to supply the demand, now thet they’ve got to be sich a fad with rich people. When the Orient was fust diskivered there was a good many rugs there, but it had took years to make each one of ’em, an’ some was so old they had holes wore in ’em; but that made ’em the more vallyble ’cause it proved they was antiques. They picked ’em up fast, an’ the Orientals was glad to sell ’em an’ say nothin’. Ev’ry tourist thet goes to the East wants to buy rugs to send home, an’ he’ll pay ’most any price that’s asked fer rare ol’ patterns an’ dim, washed-out colors. Ef there’s a few holes, badly mended, so much the better, fer they proves the rugs is old. So the clever Easterners an’ the cleverer Yankees hit on a scheme to supply the demand, an’ here in Germantown they makes thousands of rare ol’ Oriental rugs every year. They buy a few genooine ones to copy the patterns from, an’ they weave ’em by machinery. Then the new rugs is put into a machine that beats dust an’ dirt into ’em an’ beats it out again, till the new, fresh colors gits old an’ faded. After this they’re run through a rubbin’ machine that wears ’em down some an’ makes a few holes, here an’ there; an’ then the menders take ’em an’ darn the holes. In about a day’s time one o’ them rugs goes through about as much wear an’ tear by machinery as it would get in centuries of use; an’ fer my part I can’t tell the diff’rence atween a genooine Oriental an’ a imitation one. We’ve got a whole cargo to take to Syria, an’ in a few months they’ll mostly come back agin, an’ be laid on the floors of our millionaires. Queer traffic, ain’t it, Sam? But if you stops to think, there’s been enough Oriental rugs carted out’n the Orient, in the last hundred years, to carpet most of Asia an’ Africa with; so it stands to reason they ain’t all the real thing. If it wasn’t fer Yankee ingenooity an’ Oriental trickery the supply’d been exhausted years ago, an’ our people’d hev to carpet their floors with honest, fresh rugs instead o’ these machine worn imitations. That would break their hearts, wouldn’t it?”
But Uncle Naboth had arranged also to carry another queer line of merchandise on our voyage, consisting of several large cases consigned by a Connecticut manufacturer. These contained imitations of ancient Egyptian scarabs (a sort of mud beetle considered sacred by the old sun-worshippers), and a collection of funeral figures, tiny household gods and other articles supposed to be found only in the tombs of the primitive kings and nobles of Egypt.
“The Egyptian gov’ment,” explained Uncle Naboth, “won’t let any more genooine relics be taken out’n the country, ’cause they wants ’em all fer the Cairo Museum; so the Yankees hev come to the front agin, an’ made mud relics by the bushel, so’s the eager tourists can buy what they wants to bring home an’ prove they’ve been there. These cases o’ goods is consigned to merchants in Luxor, a little town up the Nile, an’ I’ve agreed to run over to Alexandria, after we’ve unloaded our Syrian rugs, an’ dump the rubbish on the dock there. There ain’t many cases of it, but the profits is so big that we get well paid for the job.”
“But how did these wares get to Philadelphia from Connecticut?” asked my father.
“Oh, I’ve been correspondin’ with ol’ Ackley, the Yankee that makes ’em, fer some time,” said my uncle, “but I couldn’t tell how much room the rugs would take up until I got here. When I found I could stow the Egyptian rubbish, I telegraphed to Ackley an’ the consignment got here by freight yesterday. But that ain’t the worst of it, partners.”
“What is the worst?” I inquired.
“Why, the Yankee manufacturer has sent me his beloved son, with a letter askin’ me to carry him with us to Egypt, so’s he can study the country an’ find out what ancient relics they need supplied in large quantities, an’ collect from the dealers fer this first batch.”
“We don’t take passengers,” said my father, sharply.
“So I said; but the young duffer is here, an’ won’t take no fer an answer. He says he’s willin to pay fer his passage, an’ his dad wants him to keep an eye on them precious modern antiquities as we’re to carry. So I’ve put the case up to you, an’ you can decide it.”