until three times the proper fee shall have been paid. Of only these
two things let the passenger assure himself--fight how he may, he will
neither escape their clutches nor get wet. Rather they will hold him
upside-down until the contents of his pockets fall into the surf. Dry
on the beach or into the boat they will dump him. And whatever he
shall pay them will surely be insufficient.

But we had a privy councilor of England of our party, and favors were
shown us that never fall to the lot of ordinary travelers. Opposite
the Sultan's palace is the Sultan's private wharf, so royal and private
that it is a prison offense to trespass on it without written
permission. Because of his official call at the Residency, and of his
card left on the Sultan, wires had been pulled, and a pompous
individual whose black face sweated greasily, and whose palm itched for
unearned increment, called on Monty very shortly after breakfast with
intimation that the wharf had been placed at our disposal, since His
Highness the Sultan desired to do us honor.

So when the B. I. steamer dropped anchor in the great roadstead shortly
after noon we were taken to the wharf by one of the Sultan's
household--a very civil-spoken Arab gentleman--and three English
officers met us there who made a fuss over Monty and were at pains to
be agreeable to the rest of us. While we stood chatting and waiting
for the boat that should row us and belongings the mile-and-a-half or
so to the steamer, I saw something that made me start. Fred gazed
presently in the same direction.

"Johnson is number one!" he said, as if checking off my mental
processes. He meant Hassan. "Number two is Georges Coutlass, our
friend the Greek. Number three is--am I drunk this early in the
day?--what do you see?--doesn't she look to you like?--by the big blind
god of men's mistakes it's--Monty! Didums, you deaf idiot, look! See!"

At that everybody naturally looked the same way. Everybody nodded.
Coutlass the Greek, and Hassan, reputed nephew of Tippoo Tib, were
headed in one boat toward the steamer, the worse for the handling, but
right side up and no angrier than the usual passenger. Following them
was another boat containing a motley assortment of Arabs and
part-Arabs, who might, or might not be associated with them.

On the beach still, surrounded yet by a swarm of longshoremen who
yelled and fought, Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon and her Syrian maid stood
at bay. Her tw