Jack Hildreth on the Nile | Page 2

some reiterated words
to keep themselves in step. Then followed a water seller, bearing a
large earthen vessel, from which he was prepared to quench one's thirst
for a slight recompense. The other side of the street illustrated the lack
of privacy with which the most intimate concerns were conducted. The
fronts of the houses were open, and the public eye could gaze upon
each interior. In one I saw a worthy citizen squatting on his mat,
holding a struggling child between his knees, whose tangled hair he
was overhauling for those incumbrances with which the Egyptians
since the time of Pharaohs have been rich. From another house
something was thrown into the street, which proved to be a poor cat,
just dead -- very likely of starvation -- and whose body was tossed into
the street regardless of sanitary considerations. A little further on, a
gray-haired man sat with his back against a post, his eyes closed, as the
beads of his prayer chain slipped through his fingers, his lips moving in
prayer. He saw and heard nothing around him; he had quitted earth and
wandered in spirit in the fields of paradise, promised by Mohamed to
true believers.
Suddenly a cry arose: "May your morning be white." It was a milkman,
thus advertising his wares. "Delicious flavor, dripping with juice," cried

another, who sold melons. "They sprang from the tears of the Prophet,
O fragrance of all fragrance," echoed the voice of the rose merchant,
while the "scharbetti," or peddler of rose-water, cried "Length of life,
death to death; it purifies the blood."
Opposite a cafe stood a little Negro girl, perhaps eight years old, with a
basket hung around her neck, who cried at intervals, in a discouraged
tone: "Figs, figs, sweeter than my eyes!" Whoever had taught the child
to say this was a good business man, for her dark eyes had a far-off,
dreamy look which really was sweet. She was a pretty child, in spite of
her black skin. The frightened, pleading tone, the outstretched,
imploring hand, were certain to induce passers-by to spend a few para
for figs.
I could scarcely turn my eyes from the little creature; her voice sounded
terror-stricken, and her cry of "Figs, figs," fell on my ear like an appeal
for help, and I determined to give her a good backsheesh. I noticed that
I was not the only one who felt drawn to the child; the little black
waiter boy in the cafe had thrice slipped out while I stood there to buy a
fig. Was it because he loved sweets. or from childish sympathy? When
he approached the little girl her face lighted up with a loving look, as it
did if he looked out the door and their eyes met. Turning to see if he
were still in sight, I saw him crouching down in a corner, half turned
away from the street, and yes, he was crying; I saw him repeatedly rub
the back of his hand across his eyes to dry the tears. The little girl
discovered him in his corner, and, seeing that he was crying, both of
her hands instantly flew up to her eyes. Evidently there was some
connection between these two pretty ebony children. What made me do
so I could not say, but I went over to the boy in the corner. As he saw
me standing by him he jumped up, and, with a little bow, started to go
away. I held him fast, however, and asked him, in a tone I tried to make
encouraging:
"Why are you crying? Can't you tell me?"
He looked me in the face, winked away his tears, and replied: "Because
no one buys from Djangeh."

"Do you mean the little fig merchant over there?"
"Yes."
"You buy from her; I saw you do so several times."
He seemed to think I accused him of gluttony, for he said, hastily: "I
didn't eat the figs; I'll give them back to her when the master has gone
by. I only bought them so she could have some money, for if she
doesn't bring in five piasters at night she will be beaten, and have
nothing to eat, and be tied in a circle by her hands and feet to a post. I
must bring in eight piasters; the cafe keeper gives me three each day; I
have had four to-day as backsheesh, and I only need one more. Some
one is sure to give me that, so I gave twenty para to Djangeh for figs."
"To whom do you have to bring these piasters?" I asked.
"To our master."
"He is Djangeh's master also?"
"Yes; she is my sister."
"And what is your master's name?"
"He is a wicked man, called Abd el Barak."