"So it seems a fellow called Arabi Bey, or some such name, is making a
row in Cairo; but of course it won't come to anything--these things
never do."
So spoke, after exchanging a few words with a pilot who had just come
down the Suez Canal from Port Said, the Captain of our homeward-bound
steamer from India, little dreaming how world-famous the "row" of which
he spoke so lightly was to become not many weeks later.
"If these Arab fellows should ever want to destroy the canal," says a
young English Lieutenant of Engineers going home from India on leave,
"they wouldn't have much trouble with it. You see there's a regular
hollow on each side here and there, and they need only dig through or
blow up the embankment to run the channel bone-dry in no time."
His words are confirmed a few minutes later when a group of native
goat-herds, as black and shaggy and wild-looking as the goats which they
tend, wade out to within a few yards of the steamer, clamorously
offering to dive for _piastres_ (five-cent copper pieces). In fact, the
Suez Canal, throughout its whole length of eighty-six miles, is as
shallow as any ditch except in the very centre of the channel, and even
there it has a depth of only twenty six and a quarter feet, with a mean
breadth of seventy, widening to one hundred in the "sidings."
Every now and then we pass a neat little landing-place, surmounted by a
painted station house overlooking a tiny patch of stunted shrubs and
straggling flowers, doing their best to grow upon a thin smear of soil
brought from a distance, and plastered upon the barren, scorching sand.
A little farther on we see, perched on a steep sand ridge just at the
point where the canal enters the wide smooth expanse of the Timsah Lake,
a primitive sentry-box, consisting merely of a screen of dried grass,
supported by four tall canes, beneath which a drowsy Arab is supposed to
look out for passing steamers when he has nothing better to do.
But just as we are two-thirds of the way across the Timsah Lake itself,
one of the many shallow lagoons through which the canal runs for a full
third of its length, we see the French steamer ahead of us halt
suddenly, and the next moment comes a signal that a boat has run aground
in the canal beyond the lake, and that we must wait until she gets off
again.
There is no help for it, and we are just making up our minds to a halt
of several hours, with nothing to do but stare at the trim bonbon-like
houses and dark green plantations of Ismailia[1] along the farther
shore, with the big white front of the Khedive's palace standing up in
the midst like an overgrown hotel, when an unexpected interruption
occurs.
[1] Named after its founder, Ismail Pasha, the late Khedive of Egypt. It
is connected with Suez by a fresh-water canal, through which the little
Egyptian steam-launches run in about twelve hours.
"Look here, mates," shouts a sailor perched on the jib-boom; "here's one
o' them darkies out for a swim. He'll be coming to challenge old Jack
here to swim a match for the championship of the canal."
"Let him try it," retorts a tall, raw-boned, North Country man behind
him. "If that 'ere nigger thinks he can beat _me_, he'll know better
afore long, or my name ain't Jack Hawley."
So saying, Jack strips and plunges in, heading straight for the round
black head which is bobbing about like a cork in the smooth water. But
just as he reaches the Arab the latter vanishes, and a sharp pinch on
his right calf warns Jack that his enemy has taken him in the rear, amid
a shout of laughter from the steamer.
Jack darts at his assailant, who dives again, and coming up beyond him,
splashes a perfect cataract of water in his face, and instantly the two
are at it with might and main, filling the whole air with showers of
glittering spray.
"Will you swim me to that buoy yonder, Johnny?" challenges Jack.
"You go, me go," grins the native, and off they start.
At first the Egyptian's short, snapping, hand-over-hand stroke carries
him bravely on; but little by little the long, steady, powerful strokes
of the Englishman begin to tell, and at length he forges slightly ahead.
The crew cheer lustily, and fancy that Jack has certainly won the race;
but the young Lieutenant, who knows Arab ways, shakes his head and tells
them to "wait a bit."
Poor Jack! he has forgotten in his eagerness that his head is
unprotected, and that he has not one of those cast-iron Eastern skulls
that can defy a tropical sun. All at once his head is seen to sway
dizzily back, he throws up his arms convulsively, and down he goes.
"Stand by to lower the boat!" roars the Captain. "Be alive now!"
As if moved by a single impulse, the men spring at once to the davits;
but, luckily for poor Jack, other and nearer help is at hand. The Arab,
when he sees his rival's strength fail so suddenly, guesses in a moment
what is the matter, and makes for him at once. Three powerful strokes
bring him alongside of the sinking man, and twining his sinewy fingers
in Jack's bushy hair, he holds the latter's head above water, paddling
gently meanwhile to keep himself afloat.
"Stand by your tackle! let go!"
The tackles rattle sharply through the blocks, the boat splashes into
the water, and the passengers spring upon the bulwarks to give her a
cheer as she darts away toward the two imperilled men, as fast as eight
sturdy rowers can propel her.
But in this race between life and death the chances are terribly in
favor of the latter. True, the water of the lake, salter by far than the
sea itself, is buoyant as India rubber; but it is no easy matter for the
Arab, already spent with his long swim, to support the huge bulk of the
helpless sailor, and the boat seems still a fearfully long way off.
Once, twice, the Englishman's head dips below the surface, and the
oarsmen almost leap from their seats as they see it. Pull, boys, pull!
And now they are but three lengths off, and now but one, and now, with a
deafening hurrah, the fainting man and his exhausted rescuer are dragged
into the boat.
"Come, boys," cried Lieutenant H----, "that's a plucky fellow, Arab or
no Arab. What do you say to sending round the hat for him; here's a
_rupee_" (fifty cents) "to begin with."
And half an hour later the Arab was on his way back to the shore, with
more money tied up in the white cotton sash round his waist than he had
ever had before, in his life.