a, deserving of a little consideration, a
little civility, a little kindness?

Even louder than this Shakib cries out, while Khalid open-mouthed
sucks his tongue. Here at the last station, where the odours of
disinfectants are worse than the stench of the steerage, they await
behind the bars their turn; stived with Italian and Hungarian fellow
sufferers, uttering such whimpers of expectancy, exchanging such
gestures of hope. Soon they shall be brought forward to be examined by
the doctor and the interpreting officer; the one shall pry their
purses, the other their eyes. For in this United States of America we
want clear-sighted citizens at least. And no cold-purses, if the
matter can be helped. But neither the eyes, alas, nor the purses of
our two emigrants are conformable to the Law; the former are filled
with granulations of trachoma, the latter have been emptied by the
sharpers of Marseilles. Which means that they shall be detained for
the present; and if within a fortnight nothing turns up in their
favour, they shall certainly be deported.

Trachoma! a little granulation on the inner surface of the eyelids,
what additional misery does it bring upon the poor deported emigrant?
We are asked to shed a tear for him, to weep with him over his blasted
hopes, his strangled aspirations, his estate in the mother country
sold or mortgaged,--in either case lost,--and his seed of a new life
crushed in its cotyledon by the physician who might be short-sighted
himself, or even blind. But the law must be enforced for the sake of
the clear-sighted citizens of the Republic. We will have nothing to do
with these poor blear-eyed foreigners.

And thus our grievous Scribe would continue, if we did not exercise
the prerogative of our Editorial Divan. Rather let us pursue our
narration. Khalid is now in the hospital, awaiting further development
in his case. But in Shakib's, whose eyes are far gone in trachoma, the
decision of the Board of Emigration is final, irrevokable. And so,
after being detained a week in the Emigration pen, the unfortunate
Syrian must turn his face again toward the East. Not out into the
City, but out upon the sea, he shall be turned adrift. The grumpy
officer shall grumpishly enforce the decision of the Board by handing
our Scribe to the Captain of the first steamer returning to Europe--if
our Scribe can be found! For this flyaway son of a Phoenician did not
seem to wait for the decision of the polyglot Judges