“Some people are so indecently lucky,” Jim Sakers protested. “It has been my ambition from childhood to visit the interior of the Sphinx.”
“You poor nut!” said Barry. “The Sphinx is solid. You mean the interior of the Pyramid!”
“Not so hasty,” Jim rebuked him, “not so hasty, my friend. My ambitions are not the ambitions of an ordinary man. Any fool can visit the interior of the Pyramid if he’s lucky enough to get to Egypt. Nothing so commonplace as that appeals to me. I said, and I repeat, that it has always been my ambition to visit the interior of the Sphinx. I hope I make myself clear.”
“You expose fresh views of your ghastly ignorance at every turn,” Barry said. “If you can think clearly for two minutes, concentrate on what I’m going to say. Everybody seems to think that I need a vacation, and Dad has decided to pay a visit to Egypt and to spend the beginning of winter there.”
“Lucky, lucky man,” Jim murmured.
“He is keen for me to go with him,” Barry went on; “and as I have never been out of America yet, the idea rather appeals----”
“Rather appeals!” Jim echoed. “Oh! the blasé youth of this generation! I should cheer for an hour without stopping if my honoured parent could be induced to get out of touch with Wall Street for a week-end!”
“In brief,” Barry pursued patiently, “the idea that I am trying to drive into your thick skull is this: I am going to Egypt, and I am going next week.”
“This is dreadful,” Jim declared. “Think of the broken hearts in New York. Besides, what about the Princess?”
“It is about the Princess,” Barry returned, “that I want to speak to you. Several people, yourself included, have tried to convince me that I’m suffering from a delusion where this girl is concerned. But I am just as certain as ever that I have seen her, definitely twice, possibly three times. What I want to ask you is this: Once in a while, when you are in that neighbourhood, see if you can find anything out.”
“You mean,” Jim suggested, “drop in on Mr. Brown and say that I have called about the electric light, or the installment due on the Ford, or something of that kind?”
“Something of that kind,” Barry agreed. “Do it your own way--but just keep a sharp lookout. And if you should pick up any information, send me a cable. I can’t give you the route. When we get to some place up the Nile where we are going to camp, I shall have to let you know.”
“Consider it done,” said Jim. “And now, I have a request to make. Bring me back a large bottle filled with the sand of the unchanging desert. By sprinkling this in my bathroom and walking about in bare feet, I shall be able to imagine that I am a son of the mysterious East. Ho, there! Fatima, my dark-eyed ship of the desert!”
“The expression ‘ship of the desert,’” Barry interrupted, “usually refers to a camel!”
“I am talking about a camel,” Jim assured him. “The affection of the Arab for his camel is an historical fact.”
“You are thinking about his horse!”
“I am not thinking about his horse!” Jim cried. “The Arab I am talking about has no horse, he has a camel.”
And now: “What’s the row?” demanded a deep voice.
Aunt Micky intruded, carrying a large hatbox.
“Hello! Micky!” Barry exclaimed. “Been shopping again?”
“Yes,” was the reply; “it has just arrived. The best that Dobbs could do for me.”
Opening the box, she produced a sun helmet of dazzling white, decorated with a puggaree band in silver, violet, and maroon.
“Great shakes!” Jim exclaimed. “Is this for Barry?”
“It is,” Aunt Micky returned firmly. “It is most important that he should not expose his skull to the rays of the sun. John always wears a helmet in the East.”
“I know he does,” Barry admitted ruefully, contemplating this “creation,” “but the one he wears is a decent sort of putty shade--and without ribbons. However! Is it the right size?”
He tried it on.
“Really smart people,” Jim commented, “wear a feather--a small, neat feather--stuck in the band just above the left ear. I am told that everyone will be wearing them this season. Didn’t they tip you this at Dobbs’, Micky?”
“They tipped me a lot of things,” Micky returned, lighting a cigarette, “and there are lots of things I could tip you!”
“I know it,” he said; “my ignorance is appalling. But on one point Park Avenue is agreed. I do know how to dress. Further, I don’t merely put on my clothes--I wear them! Allow me, Barry.”
He raised his hands and settled the helmet at an angle over Barry’s right ear, then took a step back to contemplate the result.
“Better,” he muttered, “better. That is the British Army rake. Of course--” again grasping the helmet and tilting it forward--“there is the Rajah rake, very popular in India, and also----”
He was about to take further liberties when Barry gave him a playful but powerful punch in the chest.
“And also there is the complete limit,” he said, “and you reach it every time, Jim.”
Taken all around, however, the period of preparation was an exciting one for Barry. His father was an experienced traveller and, under his guidance, Barry acquired all sorts of equipment for the journey. On the advice of Danbazzar, most of the camp gear, the firearms, and the impedimenta of the excavator, they were picking up in London. Danbazzar had prepared a formidable list of these, and Barry discovered a great fascination in merely reading it.
The papyrus had disappeared into Danbazzar’s great safe, and Barry often wondered if his imagination had played him tricks in regard to the portrait of Princess Zalithea. He had abandoned hope of ever seeing this girl of dreams again; but Fate had one more curious experience in store for him, and it came about in this way:
Professor Blackwell was leaving for Europe a week ahead of them, and later joining the party in Egypt. Bound to strictest secrecy regarding the nature of the expedition, his scientific curiosity had been greatly aroused, and he had consented to be present at the opening of the tomb when that time came.
The steamer sailed at midnight, and Professor Blackwell had dined at the Cumberland home prior to joining her. Barry and his father went on board with him, inspected his stateroom, ascertained that his baggage had arrived safely, and then:
“There is no point in waiting,” said the Professor. “We don’t sail for another twenty minutes or so, but it is my custom on these night sailings to turn in. I leave unpacking until the morning. I hate all this fuss and bustle!”
“As you like, Blackwell,” said John Cumberland. “See you in Cairo--or, if you have gone up the river, in Luxor. Hope you have a nice crossing.”
Barry and his father came down the gangway, turned to wave to the tall, gaunt Professor at the top, and then made their way along the pier toward the staircase. They reached the street level at practically the same moment that the elevator started up.
Through the iron grille of the car a girl was looking out, apparently directly at Barry.
He stopped dead, stared at the ascending elevator, and then, with no explanation to his father, turned and fled back up the stairs like a man demented!
His behaviour was so extraordinary that a Customs official intercepted him at the top.
“Kindly stand aside!” Barry said breathlessly. “I have seen someone I want to speak to--must speak to!”
“Go easy, go easy!” The man persistently intruded his burly form. “Wait a minute! Who are you running away from?”
“I’m not running away from anybody!” cried Barry angrily. “Let me pass! I want to go on board.”
“Go easy!” the man repeated. “You can’t go on board. The last visitors are just coming ashore. In three minutes the gangway will be cleared----”
And then John Cumberland, even more breathless than Barry, arrived on the scene.
“What’s the matter?” he asked; and, to the man: “It’s all right,” he explained. “My name is John Cumberland. My son has seen someone he thinks he knows.”
“You can guess who it is!” the latter returned. “And I’ve lost her again!”
Slipping past the mystified Customs officer, he raced out along the pier.
Beyond exciting amusement and astonishment among the onlookers, his reward was nil. Of course! He was too late! And he was sure, absolutely sure, that this time he had not been mistaken! Could it be that she had gone on board the liner?--that she was leaving America--still unknown, elusive to the end!
He was prevented from reaching the gangplank. The order “Clear away!” was given as he ran up. Realizing the hopelessness of the thing, he turned and went back to where his father waited. His manner was constrained.
As they drove home, John Cumberland was very sympathetic, but secretly was glad to think that the journey to Egypt would prove a powerful distraction, which he considered his son badly needed. He was growing more and more anxious about this odd obsession of Barry’s.
We are no other than a moving row
Of magic shadow-shapes which come and go,
Round with the sun-illumined lantern held
In midnight by the Master of the Show.
The Master of the Show had many more queer tricks and illusions in store. But neither Barry nor John Cumberland, being poor mortals, could peep behind the scenes. The ensuing week passed like a feverish dream, so magically does time dissolve on such occasions--and the night of their departure for Egypt came.
A tremendous crowd of friends turned up to see them off, Aunt Micky more iron-jawed than usual, and full of dark theories respecting missing baggage (which was really safely on board, of course).
“Clean your teeth in Vichy water,” was her last injunction to Barry. “Once you are out of England, all water is poison.”
Then came the final shouted farewells, Danbazzar, Barry, and John Cumberland standing at the rail as the liner crept out of her dock. Much cheering and waving of hats. Great excitement, to be followed by depression. And over it all came a clarion cry from Jim Sakers, standing bareheaded far below, a megaphone upraised.
“Don’t forget, Barry!” he bellowed--“a bottle of the Unchanging Desert! I am an Arab brave and free!”
