Zack could see something, something like a dusty fog that lay flat against the sea, but not his idea of mysterious Africa. The barbaric glamour did not appeal to Zack. Solid land up rose from the sea, the roofs of a city, and a harbor with long stone arms encircling countless masts—thicker than fishing-poles in a cane-brake. Zack saw nothing of the shore; he wasn't studying about those ridges of tiger yellow sands, with groups of plumy palms against an impalpable sky. They moved on slowly towards the harbor. The mosques and minarets of Alexandria never caught his shifty glances. He searched the sea and scanned the boats, kept his eyes peeled for yellow flags and not for scenery. The Fort of Kait Bay moved by unheeded; the Palace of Ras-el-Tin was nothing but a big yellow house—now if it had been a yellow flag.
Then, from somewhere—Zack hadn't heard it before—there came the "put-put-put" of a tug boat; he saw its blunt nose like an alligator, saw a yellow flag, and his breath stopped.
"Zack," the Colonel spoke and the negro jumped; "Zack, is our baggage ready?"
"Yas, suh, ready, suh."
"Get it up, and keep close to me."
"Yas, suh."
Lykoff listened with satisfaction. He had this
