166
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
Moustafa complained bitterly. "His enemies will kill him very
soon."
While Moustafa had attempted to persuade the sheikh to
help us, I had been browsing outside. A short, chunky young
man with a military shirt and leggings sought admission and
was brusquely turned away amid a vicious exchange of words.
I watched from the safety of the doorway as he stood there,
cursing. As he left, he saw me and said gruffly: "Sabah il-kher.
Good morning."
"Ussaid hel sabah min'allah. May Allah give you a good
morning."
The way I pronounced the words made him turn around.
"Are you English?" he asked.
"La, no. American."
It was the beginning of a stormy friendship that was to alter
the entire course of my adventures with the Arabs. The young
man—Faris—was from Jerusalem. An idea came to me.
"Meet us at the schoolhouse at noon," I said. "It will be to
your interest."
I told Moustafa about Faris and suggested that we ask
him to take us to Jerusalem. Our boys had no money by this
time; they had counted on Sheikh Azaayim for help; they were
willing now to fight for anybody who would feed and arm
them. Moustafa thought my idea excellent. He had a plan to
enlist the support of Jerusalem Arabs once we reached the
city. Captain Zaki and the boys agreed to let Moustafa go
ahead and arrange matters, while they remained in Beersheba
and tried to enlist local support. When Faris came at noon,
we asked if he would take the two of us. He agreed.
"To Jerusalem!" Moustafa said, delighted. "Yallah!"
Our credentials were carefully inspected on the way out.
My authorization from Al Misri and the letter from the
Mufti's Arab Higher Committee passed the test. We took the
road north. The brown scorched land all around us spoke of
the barrenness of man's neglect. It was covered with outcroppings of rock and sparse thin grass as far as the eye could