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[Illustration: Ships of the desert.]


THE BOY FORTUNE HUNTERS IN EGYPT

by

FLOYD AKERS

Author of
“The Boy Fortune Hunters In Panama,” etc.






[Illustration: Publisher Logo]

Chicago
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago


      *      *      *      *      *      *

                       BOYS BOOKS BY FLOYD AKERS

  The Boy Fortune Hunters in Alaska
  The Boy Fortune Hunters in Panama
  The Boy Fortune Hunters in Egypt

                 Cloth 12 mos. Splendidly Illustrated.
                          Price 60 cents each.

      *      *      *      *      *      *


Copyright 1908
by
The Reilly & Britton Co.




LIST OF CHAPTERS

  CHAPTER                                              PAGE
      I The Runaway                                       9
     II Our Venture                                      21
    III An Obstinate Passenger                           47
     IV A Riot and a Rescue                              65
      V The Professor’s Secret                           76
     VI The Treasure of the Ancients                     92
    VII A Great Undertaking                             109
   VIII Gege-Merak                                      119
     IX Across the Black Mountains                      135
      X Deep in the Desert Sands                        150
     XI Taking Chances                                  167
    XII Abdul Hashim Explains                           183
   XIII Prisoners                                       204
    XIV The Well of the Scorpions                       213
     XV Van Dorn Turns Traitor                          222
    XVI The Mad Camel                                   233
   XVII Iva                                             242
  XVIII Ketti Proves a Friend                           250
    XIX Lovelace Pasha                                  261
     XX The Khedive Takes the Last Trick—but One        275




                               CHAPTER I.
                              THE RUNAWAY.


I was standing on the deck of the _Seagull_, looking over the rail and
peering into the moonlight that flooded the bay where we lay at anchor,
when the soft dip of an oar caught my ear.

It was the softest dip in the world, stealthy as that of an Indian, and
in the silence that reigned aboard ship I stood motionless, listening
for a repetition of the sound.

It came presently—the mere rustle of the drops as they slid off the
oar’s blade—and a small boat stole from the shadows astern and crept to
our side.

I glanced along the rail and saw, a few paces away, the dim form of the
watch, alert and vigilant; but the man knew I was there, and forbore to
hail the mysterious craft below.

At a snail’s pace the boat glided along our side until it was just
beneath me, when I could see a blot in the moonlight that resembled a
human form. Then a voice, so gentle that it scarce rose above the
breeze, called out:

“Ahoy, mate!”

Now I ought to explain that all this was surprising; we were a simple,
honest American merchant ship, lying in home waters and without an
element of mystery in our entire outfit. On the neighboring shore of the
harbor could be seen the skids from which the _Seagull_ had been
launched a month before, and every man and boy in Chelsea knew our
history nearly as well as we did ourselves.

But our midnight visitor had chosen to steal upon us in a manner as
unaccountable as it was mysterious, and his hail I left unanswered while
I walked to the landing steps and descended them until I stood upon the
platform that hung just over the boat.

And now I perceived that the tub—for it was little else—was more than
half full of water, and that the gunwale rode scarce an inch above the
smooth surface of the bay. The miserable thing was waterlogged and about
to sink, yet its occupant sat half submerged in his little pool, as
quiet and unconcerned as if no danger threatened.

“What’s up?” I demanded, speaking rather sternly.

The form half rose, the tub tipped and filled, and with a gentle splash
both disappeared from view and left me staring at the eddies. I was
about to call for help when the form bobbed up again and a hand shot out
and grasped a rope dangling from the landing stage. I leaned over to
assist, and the fellow scrambled up the line with remarkable agility
until I was able to seize his collar and drag him, limp and dripping, to
a place beside me.

At this time I was just eighteen years of age and, I must confess, not
so large in size as I longed to be; but the slender, bent form of the
youth whom I had rescued was even of less stature than my own. As he
faced me in the moonlight and gave a gasp to clear the water from his
throat, I noted the thin, pinched features and the pair of large, dark
eyes that gazed with pleading earnestness into my own.

“For Heaven’s sake, what are you up to?” I asked, impatiently; “and how
came you to be afloat in that miserable tub? It’s a wonder you didn’t
sink long before you reached our side.”

“So it is,” he replied in a low voice. “Are you—are you Sam Steele,
sir?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! I hoped it would be you. Can I go aboard, sir? I want to talk to
you.”

I could not well have refused, unless I consigned the fellow to the
waters of the bay again. Moreover, there was a touching and eager appeal
in the lad’s tones that I could not resist. I turned and climbed to the
deck, and he followed me as silently as a shadow. Then, leaning against
the rail, I inquired somewhat testily:

“Couldn’t you wait until morning to pay me a visit? And hadn’t you
enough sense to know that old dinghy wouldn’t float?”

“But it did float, sir, until I got here; and that answered my purpose
very well,” he replied. “I had to come at night to keep from being
discovered and recaptured.”

“Oh! You’re a criminal, then. Eh?”

“In a way, sir. I’m an escaped cabin-boy.”

That made me laugh. I began to understand, and the knowledge served to
relieve the strain and dissolve the uncanny effect of the incident. An
escaped cabin-boy! Well, that was nothing very wonderful.

“Here, come to my room and get some dry togs,” I said, turning abruptly
to the gangway. The lad followed and we passed silently through the
after-cabin, past the door of Uncle Naboth’s quarters—whence issued a
series of stentorian snores—and so into my own spacious stateroom, where
I lighted a lamp and carefully closed the door.

“Now, then,” I exclaimed, pulling some of my old clothes from a locker,
“slip on this toggery at once, so your teeth will stop chattering.”

He discarded his dripping garments and replaced them with my dry flannel
shirt and blue trousers, my thick socks and low shoes. I picked up his
own ragged clothes and with a snort of contempt for their bedraggled and
threadbare condition tossed them out of the window into the sea.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, and clutched at his breast.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing. I thought at first you had thrown away mother’s picture; but
it’s here, all right,” and he patted his breast tenderly.

“Hungry?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir.” He gave a shiver, as if he had just remembered this
condition; and I brought some biscuits and a tin of sardines from my
cupboard and placed them before him.

The boy ate ravenously, washing down the food with a draught of water
from the bottle in the rack. I waited for him to finish before I
questioned him. Then, motioning him to a seat on my bunk, for he seemed
weak and still trembled a bit, I said:

“Now, tell me your story.”

“I’m a Texan,” he replied, slowly, “and used to live in Galveston. My
folks are dead and an uncle took care of me until a year ago, when he
was shot in a riot. I didn’t mind that; he was never very good to me;
but when he was gone I had no home at all. So I shipped as a cabin-boy
aboard the _Gonzales_, a tobacco sloop plying between Galveston and Key
West, for I always loved the sea and this was the best berth I could
get. The Captain, Jose Marrow, is half Mexican and the cruelest man in
the world. He whipped me when he was drunk, and abused and cuffed me
when sober, and many a time I hoped he would kill me instead of keeping
up the tortures I suffered. Finally he came up here with a cargo, and
day before yesterday, just as he had unloaded and was about to sail
again, he sent me ashore on an errand. Of course I skipped. I ran along
the bay and hid in a lumber shed, from the top of which I could watch
the _Gonzales_. She didn’t sail, because old Marrow was bound to have me
back, I guess; so I had to lay low, and all the time I was sure he’d
find me in the end and get me back. The sloop’s in the bay yet, sir,
only about a quarter of a mile away.”

“Well?”

“Well, last evening a couple of men came to sort some of the timbers,
and I lay hid on top the pile and listened to their talk. They spoke of
the _Seagull_, and how it was to sail far away into the Mediterranean,
and was the best built ship that ever left this port.”

“That’s true enough, my lad.”

“And they said Cap’n Steele was the best man to work for in the merchant
service, and his son, Sam Steele—that’s you, sir—was bound to make as
good a sailor as his dad, and had been in some queer adventures already,
and was sure to find more of them before he was much older.”

I had to smile at that evident “taffy,” and my smile left the boy
embarrassed. He hesitated a moment, and then continued:

“To a poor devil like me, sir, such a tale made me believe this ship a
floating paradise. I’ve heard of captains who are not as cruel as old
Marrow; so when the men had gone I decided to get to you in some way and
beg you to take me aboard. You see, the Mexican is waiting to hunt me
down, and I’d die sooner than go back to his terrible ship. If you’ll
take me with you, Mr. Steele, I’ll be faithful and true, and work like a
<DW65> for you. If you won’t, why, just say the word, and I’ll jump
overboard again.”

“Can you swim?”

“No.”

I thought a moment.

“What’s your name?” I asked, finally.

“Joe Herring.”

“Well, Joe, you’re asking something unusual, I must say. I’m not the
captain of the _Seagull_, but merely purser, or to be more exact the
secretary to Mr. Perkins, the supercargo. I own a share in the ship, to
be sure, and purchased it with money I made myself; but that fact
doesn’t count when we’re at sea, and Captain Steele is the last man in
the world to harbor a runaway member of the crew of a friendly ship.
Indeed, your old master came aboard us this morning, to inquire about
you, and I heard my father say that if he set eyes on you anywhere he’d
let Captain Marrow know. As he never breaks his word this promise is to
be depended upon. Do you see, now, what a fix you’re in?”

“I do, sir.”

His voice was low and despondent and he seemed to shrink back in his
seat into an attitude hopeless and helpless.

I looked at the boy more closely, and the appeal in his pinched
features, that had struck me at the first glance on the landing stage,
became more impressive than ever.

“How old are you, Joe?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

He was tall, but miserably thin. His brown hair, now wet and clinging
about his face, curled naturally and was thick and of fine texture,
while his dark eyes were handsome enough to be set in the face of a
girl. This, with a certain manly dignity that shone through his pitiful
expression, decided me to befriend the lad, and I had an inspiration
even in that first hour of meeting that Joe Herring would prove a loyal
follower and a faithful friend.

“We sail at ten o’clock, and it’s now past midnight,” I remarked,
thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir; I’ll go any time you say.”

“But you can’t swim, Joe.”

“Never mind. Don’t let me be a bother to you. You’ll want to turn in,”
casting a wistful look around my pleasant room, “and so I’ll find my way
on deck and you needn’t give me another thought.”

“Very good,” said I, nodding. “I think I’ll turn in this minute.”

He rose up, slowly.

“Just climb into that upper berth, Joe, and go to sleep. There’ll be
work for you tomorrow, and you’ll need to get rested.”

He stared into my smiling face a moment with a startled look that soon
became radiant. Then he broke down and cried like a baby.

“Here, no snivelling!” I growled, savagely. “Pile into that berth; but
see you get your shoes off, first.”

He obeyed, still blubbering but evidently struggling to restrain his
sobs. Indeed, his privations of the past two days, half starved and
hunted like a dog, had completely unnerved the poor fellow. When he had
tumbled into the berth I locked the door, put out the light, and rolled
myself in my own blanket.

A few moments later I heard Joe stirring. He leaned over the edge of the
bunk and murmured:

“God bless you, Sam Steele! I’ll never forget, sir, the way you——”

“Oh, shut up and go to sleep, Joe,” I cried. “You’ve kept me awake long
enough already.”

“Yes, sir.” And after that he was silent.




                              CHAPTER II.
                              OUR VENTURE.


Those who were present at the launching of our beautiful new _Seagull_
were unanimous in declaring her the trimmest, daintiest, most graceful
craft that had ever yet floated in the waters of old Chelsea bay. Her
color was pure white, her brass work brilliant as gold. She was yacht
built, on the lines of the fast express boats, and no expense had been
spared in her construction or fittings.

My father, Captain Steele, one of the ablest and best known sailors on
the Atlantic coast, had personally supervised the building of the
_Seagull_ and watched every step of progress and inspected every bit of
timber, steel, or brass, so that nothing might be slighted in any way.
She was one hundred and eighty-seven feet in length, with a thirty-six
foot beam and a depth of twenty-one feet, and her net tonnage was close
to fourteen hundred. We had her schooner rigged, because Captain Steele
believed in sailing and had designed his ship for a merchantman of the
highest class, but of the old school.

Uncle Naboth and I, who were also part owners of the ship—the firm being
Steele, Perkins & Steele—had begged earnestly to convert her into a
modern steamer; but my father angrily resented the suggestion.

“Her name’s the _Seagull_,” he declared, “an’ a seagull without wings
’ud be a doggone jack-rabbit; so wings she mus’ have, my lads, ef Dick
Steele’s goin’ to sail her.”

We had really put a fortune into the craft, and Uncle Naboth—a shrewd
old trader who marked the world as it moved and tried to keep pace with
it—was as anxious to have the ship modern in every respect as I was. So
we stood stubbornly side by side and argued with the Captain until he
finally granted a partial concession to our wishes and consented to our
installing an auxiliary equipment of a screw propeller driven by
powerful engines, with the express understanding that they must only be
used in case of emergency.

“It’s a rank waste o’ money, an’ takes up vallyble room,” he growled;
“but ef so be you ain’t satisfied with decent spars an’ riggin,’ why,
git your blarsted ol’ machinery aboard—an’ be hanged to ye both!”

This consent was obtained soon after my return from Panama, but Uncle
Naboth and I had ordered the engines months previously, having been
determined to install them from the day the _Seagull_ was first planned;
so no time was lost in getting them placed.

You will know the _Seagull_ more intimately as my story progresses, so I
will avoid a detailed description of it just now, merely adding that the
ship was at once the envy and admiration of all beholders and the pride
and joy of her three owners.

My father had sailed for forty years and had at one time lost his right
leg in a shipwreck, so that he stumped around with a cork substitute.
But he was as energetic and active as in his youth, and his vast
experience fully justified his reputation as one of the ablest and
shrewdest seamen in the merchant service. Indeed, Captain Steele was
universally known and respected, and I had good reason to be proud of
the bluff old salt who owned me as his son. He had prejudices, it is
true, acquired