The donkey-boys of the Nile deserve a book all to themselves.  Such craft!  Such flattery!  Such knowledge of human nature!  With unerring sagacity they discover your nationality and give your donkey names famous in your own country.  Never will an Englishman find himself astride “Yankee Doodle” or “Uncle Sam,” or an American upon “John Bull.”  They pick you up in their arms to put you on or take you from your donkey as if you were a baby.  They run beside you holding your umbrella with one hand, and with the other arm holding you on if you are timid.  Staid, dignified women who teach Sunday-school classes at home, who would not permit a white manservant to touch them, lean on their donkey-boys as if they were human balustrades.

My first donkey-boy was an enchanting rascal.  He looked like a handsome bronze statue.  My donkey was a pale, drab little beast, woolly and dejected.  He looked as though if you hurled contemptuous epithets at him for a week they would all fit his case.  My companion’s was more jaunty.  He had been clipped in patterns.  His legs were all done in hieroglyphics, and he held his ears up while mine trailed his in the sand.

Nevertheless, I was so deadly afraid of him that I saw my forty-nine fellow-passengers leave me, one after the other, while I still hesitated and eyed him suspiciously.  Perhaps I never would have mounted had not Imam, the dragoman, with the frank unceremoniousness of the East, caught me up in his arms and landed me on my donkey before I could protest.  And in the face of his childish smile of confidence I could only gasp.  We moved off with the majesty of a funeral procession.

“What’s the name of my donkey?” asked my companion.

“Cleveland,” came the answer like a flash.

We were enchanted.

“And what’s the name of mine?” I asked.

“McKinley!”

Then we shouted.  You have no idea how funny it sounded to hear those two familiar names in such strange surroundings.  We nearly tumbled off in our delight, and so quick are those clever little donkey-boys to watch your face and divine your mood that in a second they gave that Weird, long-drawn donkey call, “Oh-h-ah-h!” and my companion’s donkey swung into a gentle trot, with her donkey-boy running behind, beating him with a stick and pinching him in the legs.

At that McKinley, not to be outdone by any Democratic donkey, pricked up his ears.  I heard a terrific commotion behind me.  The string of bells around McKinley’s neck deafened me, and I remember then and there losing all confidence in the administration, for McKinley was a Derby winner.  He was a circus donkey.  He broke into a crazy gallop, then into a mad run.  I shrieked but my donkey-boy thought it was a sound of joy, and only prodded him the more.  In less than two minutes I had shot past every one of the party; and for the whole day McKinley and I headed the procession.  I only saw my companion at a distance through a cloud of dust, and she does not trust me any more.  Thus have I to bear the sins of Mohammed Ali, my perfidious donkey-boy, who forced me to lead the van on that dreadful first day at Sakhara.