On the quay I ran into Hassan Bey, commandant of the police, who was
superintending the embarkation of refugees. I knew him and he knew me.
Half an hour later I was in police headquarters under examination by
Hassan Bey. I was desperate, and answered him recklessly. A seasick man
is indifferent to shipwreck. This was the substance of our
conversation:--
"How did you get aboard the ship?"
"In a boat with some refugees. A woman hid me with her skirts."
"So you were trying to escape, were you?"
"If I had been, I shouldn't have come back."
"Then what did you do on the cruiser?"
"I went to talk to the captain, who is a friend of mine. My life is in
danger. Fewzi Bey is after me, and I wanted _my friends in America_ to
know how justice is done in Palestine."
"Who are your friends in America?"
"Men who could break you in a minute."
"Do you know to whom you are speaking?"
"Yes, Hassan Bey. I am sick of persecution. I wish you would hang me
with your own hands as you hanged the young Christian; my friends would
have your life for mine."
I wonder now how I dared to speak to him in this manner. But the bluff
carried. Hassan Bey looked at me curiously for a moment--then smiled
and offered me a cigarette, assuring me that he believed me a loyal
citizen, and declaring he felt deeply hurt that I had not come to him
for permission to visit the cruiser.
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