Cesare Domenico, a
good British subject born at Malta. They sat on the coolest corner in
Port Said, their table commanding both the cross-way of Chareh Sultan el
Osman, and the short, glaring vista of desert dust and starved young
acacias which led to the black hulks of shipping in the Canal. From the
Bar la Poste came orchestral strains--"Ai nostri monti"--performed by a
piano indoors and two violins on the pavement. The sounds contended with
a thin, scattered strumming of cafe mandolins, the tinkle of glasses,
the steady click of dominoes and backgammon; then were drowned in the
harsh chatter of Arab coolies who, all grimed as black as Nubians, and
shouldering spear-headed shovels, tramped inland, their long tunics
stiff with coal-dust, like a band of chain-mailed Crusaders lately
caught in a hurricane of powdered charcoal. Athwart them, Parisian
gowns floated past on stout Italian forms; hulking third-class
Australians, in shirtsleeves, slouched along toward their mail-boat,
hugging whiskey bottles, baskets of oranges, baskets of dates; British
soldiers, khaki-clad for India, raced galloping donkeys through the
crowded and dusty street. It was mail-day, and gayety flowed among the
tables, under the thin acacias, on a high tide of Amer Picon.

Through the inky files of the coaling-coolies burst an alien and
bewildered figure. He passed unnoticed, except by the filthy little Arab
bootblacks who swarmed about him, trotting, capering, yelping
cheerfully: "Mista Ferguson!--polish, finish!--can-can--see nice Frencha
girl--Mista McKenzie, Scotcha fella from Dublin--smotta picture--polish,
finish!"--undertoned by a squabbling chorus. But presently, studying his
face, they cried in a loud voice, "Nix! Alles!" and left him, as one not
desiring polish.

"German, that chap," drawled the captain of the Tsuen-Chau, lazily,
noticing the uncertain military walk of the young man's clumsy legs, his
uncouth clothes, his pale visage winged by blushing ears of coral pink.

"The Eitel's in, then," replied Cesare. And they let the young Teuton
vanish in the vision of mixed lives.

Down the lane of music and chatter and drink he passed slowly, like a
man just wakened,--assailed by Oriental noise and smells, jostled by the
races of all latitudes and longitudes, surrounded and solitary, unheeded
and self-conscious. With a villager's awkwardness among crowds, he made
his way to a German shipping-office.

"Dispatches for Rudolph Hackh?" h