The Egyptian Murad had surprised the sailors of Baltimore by purchasing a schooner that had seen service as a privateer. He had changed its name from Sally to The Rose of Egypt. He announced that he intended to open trade with Mediterranean cities, and that he would make our town his headquarters. Enlisting a crew from idle men along the wharves, he began to load the vessel with goods for which there was a market in the Orient.

This scheme vastly puzzled the commodore. "I'd like to get to the bottom of it. It's my private opinion that he deserves a tar-and-feather party, but I haven't anything to proceed on but strong suspicions. Every time I go to look in on Congress, blast me, if I don't run afoul of Murad. He told me, the last time, that a naval committee desired to question him on trade conditions in the East. Time must hang heavy on the hands of our representatives—hobnobbing with such a fellow! They better spend their hours in finding a way to set our American lads free from Turkish chains. Can't they see what Murad's up to? I can give a guess that'll turn out to be pretty near the truth. He's spying on Congress for the rulers of Barbary! If I can only get proof of it, we'll hang the Egyptian to the Sally's yardarm!"

There came a turn of events that prevented the commodore from making further inquiry into Murad's affairs—though it did not hinder him from spreading his opinions. The Administration chose the old sea-dog as a confidential messenger to bear certain important dispatches to Commissioner Benjamin Franklin, in Paris. Off he went, promising to return within six months, and pledging me that when he came back he would have a serious interview with the rector that would result in my getting permission to go to sea.

Meanwhile the rector had gone to Virginia to attend a conference of ministers. He came back aflame with a new purpose, and with lips set in a thin line that spoke determination.

"These stout-hearted settlers who are flocking out to settle in Kentucky," he said, "are sheep without shepherds! I have learned that there is a woeful lack of ministers in the new settlements. I have determined to spend a year there. My friend, Joshua Littleton, will occupy my place here until I return. He is a scholarly man. Your studies will not suffer under him."

I did not like Mr. Littleton. He was a little dried-up man, too much occupied with studies to pay attention to the welfare of his pupils. I had a feeling that he regarded me merely as a mechanical thing that must be made to utter words and rules. You may note Mr. Littleton's industry by this advertisement that appeared frequently in a local journal:

"There is a School in Baltimore, in Market Street, where Mr. Joshua Littleton, late of Yale Colledge, teaches Reading, Writing, Arithmatick, whole numbers and Fractions, Vulgar and Decimal, The Mariner's Art, Plain and Mercator's Way, also Geometry, Surveying, the Latin tongue, the Greek and Hebrew Grammars, Ethicks, Rhetorick, Logick, Natural Philosophy, and Metaphysicks, all or any of them at a reasonable price."

After I had gleaned from him all he knew of the "Mariner's Art" I was eager to escape.

When the rector rode away on horseback to follow Daniel Boone's trail, I began to spend along the wharves all the time I could find. Murad invited me to inspect The Rose of Egypt, and soon I was as much at home on board of her as were the sailors the Egyptian had shipped.

Murad, in his endeavors to make me feel at ease, spun yarns about his career that were as fascinating as any tale Scheherazade told. One vividly described how he, having been driven from Alexandria through persecution, decided to earn his salt by assuming the character of a dervish—a rÔle in which he had to pretend to be both a priest and a conjurer. He professed to be a devout Mohammedan, and practiced this holy profession of dervish by giving advice to the sick, and by selling, for considerable sums of money, small pieces of paper on which were written sentences in Turkish from the Koran, which he sanctified by applying them to his shaven and naked crown.

At a place called Trebizond he was informed by the people that their ruler was dangerously sick and threatened with blindness. He was ordered by the ministers of the Bashaw to prescribe for him. Through files of armed soldiers he was conducted into the presence of the sick monarch. Calling upon the officers to kneel, he displayed all the pomp and haughtiness that is expected of a dervish. After invoking the aid of Allah and Mohammed, he inquired under what disease the Bashaw labored. Finding that he was afflicted with a fever, accompanied by a violent inflammation of the eyes, Murad made bold to predict that he would recover both health and sight by the time of the next new moon. Searching in the pouch containing his medicines, he produced a white powder which he ordered to be blown into the ruler's eyes, and directed that a wash of milk and water should then be used. He likewise recommended that the patient be sweated by the use of warm drinks and blankets.

He was well rewarded with money and presents.

The next day the caravan he was traveling with departed for Persia, and Murad, hoping to be nine or ten days' journey from Trebizond by the time of the next new moon, so that he might be quite out of reach in case his remedy should harm instead of help the Bashaw, departed with it.

The caravan was a large one and heavily loaded. A few days later it was overtaken by a lighter caravan, also from Trebizond. Murad, trembling in his shoes, heard two men of the newly arrived caravan talking to each other concerning the marvellous cure of the Bashaw. He learned that the court and citizens of Trebizond were singing his praises, and searching for him to heap rewards upon him.

"I was tempted to return," Murad concluded his yarn, "but I began to wonder what the restored Bashaw would say if some jealous physician should investigate my remedy and find that I had blown lime in the Bashaw's eyes to eat the films of disease away!"

Before the rector went away, Murad had been a weekly visitor to our home. He was a well-educated man, and Dr. Eccleston was glad to chat with one who could discuss the affairs of the universe and delve back into classical times. The Egyptian had restless eyes. They roved over every book in the library. Several times it seemed to me that he was trying to lead the conversation back to the theme of the treasure tomb. He would ask the rector if he had heard that a certain statue had been unearthed in Greece, or if he knew that an expedition was on its way from London to Egypt to delve for traces of a race that flourished before the Egyptians. The rector's eyes would light up, and he seemed to be on the point of answering, but always he checked himself and turned the topic. On one of these occasions his glance darted towards a locked bookcase that stood in the corner of the library. Murad's glance followed his.

When the rector went west Murad began to call on Mr. Littleton, who also received him in the library. His visits stopped suddenly. Then he announced his date of sailing. I kept putting two and two together, and one night, as I lay awake thinking about all these strange things, it suddenly flashed on me that the Egyptian had discovered the location of the rector's diagram of the treasure chamber, and that one of the reasons for his sailing was to search for the treasure. I searched in the corner of the library towards which the rector had glanced while talking to Murad, and found that the lock to one of the bookcases had been forced. A leather-bound tome, "Travels in the Holy Land," was missing.

In an instant I decided to accept Murad's often-urged invitation to sail with him.

Murad now told me that, as a matter of form, I should have to apply to his mate, Mr. Bludsoe. He led me down the deck and whispered to the mate, who eyed me sharply. Then the mate spoke:

"Can you steer?"

"Ay sir," I answered glibly, "I can reef and steer. I can make a man-rope knot, crown a lanyard, tie a reef-knot, or toss a royal bunt!"

"I fear," he said dryly, "that you are too expert for our forecastle. The men will be jealous of you. How are you as a cook?"

"I can make coffee and peel potatoes," I said more humbly, "and I know how to fry potatoes, and bacon, roast beefsteak, and cook oatmeal."

"Get your things and come aboard," he said, "such an all-around fellow is spoiling on shore."

I was by no means a greenhorn aboard a schooner. No boy could grow up in a seaport town without becoming familiar with ships, and be sure that I was no exception. The wharf and river had been my play region since earliest childhood. There were a number of yawls and cutters which the boys of the town were allowed to use when their owners did not require them, and in these we held mimic warfare, playing at buccaneers, or pretending that we were Yankee sailors fighting off English press-gangs. Sometimes a kindly skipper would allow us to explore his vessel, and there was always an old sailor of deck or dock willing to show a lad how to tie a rope or haul in a sail. Thus I became familiar with sailing ships from stem to stern and from the main royal truck to the keel.