As the American “hobo” studies the folders of the railway lines, so the vagrant beyond seas scans the posters of the steamship companies. Few were the ships plying to the Far East whose movements I had not followed during that Cairene month of February. On the journey from Isma?lia to the coast we passed four leviathans, gliding southward through the canal so close that we could read from the windows of the train the books in the hands of the passengers under the awnings. The names on every bow I knew well. Had I not, indeed, watched the departure of two of these same ships from the breakwater of Marseilles? Yet what a gulf intervened between me, crawling along the edge of the desert, and those fortunate mortals, already eastward bound! Gladly would I have exchanged places with the most begrimed stoker on board.

Had I been permitted to choose my next port, it should have been Bombay. He who is stranded at the mouth of the Suez Canal, however, talks not of choice. He clutches desperately at any chance of escape, and is content to be gone, be it east or west, on any craft that floats. Not that ships are lacking. They pass the canal in hundreds every week. But their crews are yellow men, or brown; and their anchorage well out in the stream, where plain Jack Tar may not come to plead his cause.

All this I recalled, and more, as I crawled through the African desert behind a wheezing locomotive. But one solemn oath I swore, ere the first hovel bobbed up across the sand—that, be it on coal barge or raft, I should escape from this canalside halting-place before her streets and alleys became such eyesores as had once those of Marseilles.

It was high noon when we drew into Port Sa?d, and I hurried at once to the compound behind the Catholic monastery. I was just in time. Even as I laid my knapsack on the ground and lined up with the rest, the Arab servant issued from the kitchen with those same battered tins in which he had served us months before. Barely had he disappeared again when three of the company swooped down upon me. 238One I had known at the Asile Rudolph. The second—cheering prospect!—was that identical sun-bleached Boer who had squatted against the wall of the “Home” on the early December morning of my first Egyptian day; in those identical weather-beaten garments which he still inhabited. The third I did not recognize. He was a portly German whose outward appearance stamped him as a successful weaver of M?rchen, and he spread his squat legs and gazed at me for some time with what appeared to be an admiring grin before he spoke.

“Sie sprechen Deutsch, nicht wahr?” he began. “You, perhaps, haven’t seen me, but I saw you in Jerusalem. You were making pictures with a photograph machine.” A roar of laughter set his fat sides to shaking. “Donner und Blitzen! I have been on the road a good twenty years; I know about every game die Kunde play. But that certainly is the best I ever fell upon. Ach, what a story! I’ve been telling them of the comrade with the photograph machine ever since, die Kunde, and it’s a tale they never try to beat. Herr Allah, dass ist, aber, gut!” and he bellowed with mirth until the Arab servant, to whom hilarity in one accepting alms was the height of impudence, threatened to summon the black policeman outside the gate.

The dinner over, I left my bundle with the Maltese youth and hurried away to the shipping quarter. As I anticipated, the demand for sailors was nil. The situation was most graphically described, perhaps, by the American consul.

“A man on the beach in this garbage heap,” he testified, “is down and out. He had better be sitting with the penguins on the coast of Patagonia. We haven’t signed on a sailor since I was dumped here. If you ever make a get-away, it will be by stowing away. I can’t advise you to do it, of course; but if I was in your shoes, I’d stick away on the first packet homeward bound, and do it quick, before summer comes along and sends you to the hospital. The skippers are tickled to death to get a white sailor, anyway, for these niggers are not worth the rice the company feeds ’em. You’re welcome to tumble up these office stairs every morning, if you like, but I’m not going to promise to look out for anything for you. I’d only lose my lamps a’ doing it.”

I returned to the Home at nightfall, and shared the kitchen—but not the cupboard—with the Boer. Early the next morning, I reached the water-front in time to see a great steamer nosing her way through the small craft that swarmed about the mouth of the canal. Her lines looked strangely familiar. Had I not known that the Warwickshire was due in Liverpool on this first day of March, I should have expected to see my former messmates peering over the rail of the new arrival. I made out the name on her bow as she dropped anchor opposite the main street, and turned for information to a nearby poster.

S.S. Worcestershire of the Bibby Line, on which I stowed away after taking this picture

Oriental travelers at Port Sa?d

239“Bibby Line,” ran the notice, “S. S. Worcestershire. Recently launched. Largest, best equipped, fastest steamer plying between England and British Burma. First-class passengers only. Fare to Colombo, thirty-six guineas.”

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!

240Breathlessly, 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.

The boatman swung his craft against the ladder with a sweep of the oar. I held up the note:

“Will you kindly deliver this to the chief steward? The writer wants an answer before the ship leaves.”

“I really haven’t time,” apologized the mate. “I’ve an errand ashore and we leave in fifteen minutes. You can run up with it yourself, though. Here, boatman, row me over to the custom wharf.”

I sprang up the ladder. Except for several sahib-respecting Lascars, who jumped aside as I appeared, the promenade deck was deserted. From somewhere below came the sound of waltz music and the laughter of merry people. I strolled leisurely around to the port side and walked aft in the shadow of the upper cabins. For some moments I stood alone in the darkness, gazing at the reflection of the lower portholes in the canal. Then, a step sounded at the door of 241the saloon behind me, a heavy British step that advanced several paces and halted. One could almost feel the authority in that step; one could certainly hear it in the gruff “ahem” with which the newcomer cleared his throat. An officer, no doubt, about to order me ashore! I waited in literal fear and trembling.

A minute passed, then another. I turned my head, inch by inch, and peered over my shoulder. In the shaft of light stood a man in faultless evening attire, gazing at me through the intervening darkness. His dress suggested a passenger; but the very set of his feet on the deck proved him no landsman. The skipper himself, surely! What under officer would dare appear out of uniform during a voyage?

I turned my head away again, determined to bear the impending blow with fortitude. The dreaded being cleared his throat once more, stepped nearer, and stood for a moment without speaking. Then a hand touched me lightly on the sleeve.

“Beg pahdon, sir,” murmured an apologetic voice; “beg pahdon, sir, but ’ave you ’ad dinner yet? The other gentlemen’s h’all been served, sir.”

I swallowed my throat and turned around, laying a hand over the place where my necktie should have been.

“I am not a passenger, my man,” I replied haughtily; “I have a communication for the chief steward.”

The flunky stretched out his hand.

“Oh, I cawn’t send it, you know,” I protested. “I must deliver it in person, for it requires an answer before the ship leaves.”

“Lord, you can’t see ’im,” gasped the Briton; “we’re givin’ a ball and ’e’s in the drawrin’-room.”

The sound of our voices had attracted the quartermaster on duty. Behind him appeared a young steward.

“You’d best get ashore quick,” said the sailor; “we’re only waitin’ the fourth mite. Best call a boatman or you’ll get carried off.”

“Really!” I cried, looking anxiously about me, “But I must have an answer, you know.”

“I couldn’t disturb ’im,” wheezed the older steward.

“Well, show me where he is,” I protested.

“Now we’re off in a couple o’ winks,” warned the quartermaster.

“’Ere, mite,” said the youth; “I’ll take you down.”

I followed him to the deck below and along a lighted passageway. My disguise would never stand the glare of a drawing-room. I thrust the note into the hands of my guide.

242“Be sure to bring me the answer,” I cautioned.

He pushed his way through a throng of his messmates and disappeared into the drawing-room. A moment later he returned with the answer I had expected.

“So you’re on the beach?” he grinned, “you sure did get it on Clarence, all right. ’Ard luck. The chief says the force is full an’ the company rules don’t allow ’im to tyke on a man to work ’is passage. Sye, you’ve slipped your cayble, anyway, ayn’t you? We’re not ’ome-ward bound; we’re going out. You’d best rustle it an’ get ashore.”

He turned into the galley. Never had I ventured to hope that he would let me out of his sight before he had turned me over to the quartermaster. His carelessness was due, no doubt, to his certainty that I had “slipped my cayble.” I dashed out of the passageway as if fearful of being carried off; but, once shrouded in the kindly night, paused to peer about me.

There were a score of places that offered a temporary hiding; but a stowaway through the Suez Canal must be more than temporarily hidden. I ran over in my mind the favorite lurking places on ocean liners. Inside a mattress in the steerage? First-class only. In the hold? Hatches all battened down. On the fidleys or in the coal bunkers? Very well in the depth of winter, but sure death in this climate. In the forecastle? Indian crew. In the rubbish under the forecastle head? Sure to be found in a few hours by tattle-tale natives. In the chain locker? The anchor might be dropped anywhere in the canal, and I should be dragged piecemeal through the hawse-hole.

Still pondering, I climbed to the spot where I had first been accosted. From the starboard side, forward, came the voice of the fourth mate, clambering on board. In a few moments officers and men would be flocking up from below. Noiselessly, I sprang up the ladder to the hurricane deck. That and the bridge were still deserted. I crept to the nearest lifeboat and dragged myself along the edge that hung well out over the canal. The canvas cover was held in place by a cord that ran alternately through eyeholes in the cloth and around iron pins under the gunwale. I tugged at the cord for a minute that seemed a century before I succeeded in pulling it over the first pin. After that, all went easily. With the cover loosened for a space of four feet, I thrust my head through the opening. Before my shoulders were inside my feet no longer reached the ship’s rail. I squirmed in, inch by inch, after the fashion of a swimmer, fearful of making the 243slightest noise. Only my feet remained outside when my hand struck an oar inside the boat. Its rattle could have been heard in Cairo. Drenched with perspiration, I listened for my discoverer. The festive music, evidently, engrossed the attention of the entire ship’s company. I drew in my feet by doubling up like a pocketknife, and, thrusting a hand through the opening, fastened the cord over all but one pin.

The space inside was more than limited. Seats, casks, oars, and boat-hooks left me barely room to stretch out on my back without touching the canvas above me. Two officers brushed by, and mounting to the bridge, called out their orders within six feet of me. The rattle of the anchor chain announced that the long passage of the canal had begun. When I could breathe without opening my mouth at every gasp, I was reminded that the shop where spitted mutton sold cheaply had been closed. Within an hour, that misfortune was forgotten. The sharp edge of the water cask under my back, the oars that supported my hips, the seat that my shoulders barely reached, began to cut into my flesh, sending sharp pains through every limb. The slightest movement might send some unseen article clattering. Worst of all, there was just space sufficient for my head while I kept my neck strained to the utmost. The tip of my nose touched the canvas. To have stirred that ever so slightly would have sent me packing at the first canal station.

The position grew more painful hour by hour, but with the beginning of the “graveyard” watch my body grew numb and I sank into a half-comatose state that was not sleeping.

Daylight brought no relief, though the sunshine, filtering through the canvas, disclosed the objects about me. There came the jabbering of strange tongues as the crew quarreled over their work about the deck. Now and then, a shout from a canal station marked our progress. Passengers mounting to the upper deck brushed against the lifeboat in their promenading. From time to time confidential chats sounded in my ears.

All save the officers soon retreated to the shade below. In the arid desert through which we were steaming that day must certainly have been calorific. But there, at least, a breeze was stirring. By four bells, the Egyptian sun, pouring down upon the canvas, had turned my hiding place into an oven. By noon, it resembled nothing so cool and refreshing. A raging thirst had long since put hunger to flight. In the early afternoon, as I lay motionless on my grill, there sounded the splash of water, close at hand. Two natives had been sent to wash 244the lifeboat. For an hour th............