I arrived at Cairo by steamer at three o’clock in the morning. It was a dark and gusty winter night. The rain was falling heavily. At the landing place there was not a light, not a conveyance, not a porter, not a negro even to direct us the way to the hotel. Self-help was the only kind of help any of the passengers got that night. As I scrambled up the slippery Levee, and then waded through the mud to the hotel distant about a quarter of a mile, I congratulated myself on my having sent on all my heavy luggage in advance, so that I had nothing with me but a hat-box and a hand-bag. But these impediments were more than enough for the occasion. As I struggled on I thought that if the author of ‘Martin Chuzzlewit,’ who was then giving readings in America, should revisit his Eden under such circumstances, he would not feel dissatisfied with the kind of immortality he had conferred upon it. The stream of passengers at last reached the hotel. There was no want of light here. This had been our beacon, and we felt that we had made the harbour. It was a large red-brick building, with a large hall, and a large stove, red-hot, in the midst of it. I went straight to the clerk’s counter, and entered my name in the folio guests’-book. I was among the first to do this, that I might secure a good room. No sooner, however, had I gone through this preliminary than the manager turned to me, and announced that the house could not allow me a room to myself that night, but that I must take one jointly with the gentleman who had registered his name before me. I hardly took in the speaker’s meaning, for this was the first occasion of my life when the idea of occupying a bed-room with another man had been suggested to me. I suppose I was so taken by surprise that I remained silent when I ought to have spoken, for I was next addressed by the gentleman himself with whom it was proposed I should share the bed-room. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘what do you intend to do? It is now past three; and if you don’t accept this gentleman’s offer, you will have to go out again into the street.’ Having said this he took the key from the clerk, and turning to an attendant, told him to show the way to the room. I rather followed than accompanied him, thinking over, as I went along, what I had read of Cairo when, fifteen or twenty years ago, it was a nest of rowdies, robbers, gamblers, and cut-throats, floating upon a fever-and-ague-haunted swamp. I began to be somewhat reassured by the appearance and bearing of my companion. He was a clean-limbed and remarkably handsome man, apparently turned of forty. His moustache and beard were trimmed in the French style, and his bearing was frank and soldierly. On the other side, however, I observed that he had no luggage whatever. At last the door was reached and opened. The attendant entered to light the gas. While he was doing this my companion crossed the room. In crossing it he took off his coat, and