By this time we are at the heavy, iron gate which is locked, and guarded by two strong and stalwart Arabs. I say to one of them: “Will you let me in?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Will you let me out?”
After a long pause, he responds in a deep, husky voice, “Y-e-s.”
I repeat the question, and receive the same significant frown and gutteral sound as an answer. I hardly know what is meant. I do not know but that the idea is to get me in, and then lock the gate and exact so much money before letting me out. I have not “so much money” to give.
Turning to my guide, I say, “Abraham, Abraham, I charge you by the money I have paid you, by your sense of honor and manhood; I charge you by him whose name you bear, let not this gate close until I come out.”
With an honest emphasis, he responds, “I will guard the gate.”
Laying my hand upon my companion’s shoulder, I address him thus: “Johnson, I, to some extent, commit my life into your keeping. I charge you by the sacred memory of mother, home and Heaven, by the golden ties of friendship, I charge you, Johnson, let not this gate close until I come out.”
With tears in his eyes, and his great heart welling without him, he replies: “Whittle, if necessary, I will block this gate open with my dead body until you come out.”