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274 The Sea Gypsy
"Oh take these purple robes away, Give back my robes of camel's hair, And bear me from this tow 'ring pile To where the Black tents flap i' the air. The camel's colt with fait 'ring tread, The dog that bays at all but me Delight me more than ambling mules— Than every art of minstrelsy, And any cousin, poor but free, Might take me, fatted ass! from thee."
The East changes not its heart. So sing to-day the Bedouins in scorn of the soft-bodied ministers of the King.
There were not enough chairs on the little Wisdom to seat all this distinguished party, so Taylor, McNeil and Schoedsack perched on the engine room hatch, while Shamrock, our Ceylonese messboy, served coffee and cigarettes and an even viler brand of lemonade than we had had at the reception ashore.
The conversation was somewhat awkward and hesitating at first, as only the Secretary of State spoke English, and as none of us knew a word of Arabic. I wished mightily that our guests' religion would permit them to imbibe a few rounds of more potent drinks to liven things up a little. After a bit, however, the natural ease and graciousness of the Prince took away the slight mutual embarrassment of both parties, and soon the Minister of Air was asking for more ragtime records on the victrola. Before our guests left I presented the Prince with a sporting rifle, and the next day he sent me a dagger, a duplicate of the one he had worn on the ship.