The natives stick to Arabic, but many of them have a smattering of French and English of a sort. They are all there at picking up a new language, especially if there is money back of it. They will do anything for the dollars. They may have had souls once; but now—— They have sold them long ago. The newspaper sellers were real dabs at learning English. They used to visit our camps daily (like the "orangemen"), calling out the most striking items contained in their wares. Everything out of the common was to them "very goot news"—although _we_ mightn't think so. Thus one morning you might hear: "Very goot news; Engelsch 'vancin'"; while the same evening the beggars were announcing: "Very goot news: strike in Glas_gow_." We got to take this kind of thing as a matter of course, but it was a bit tough to hear: "Very goot news: Lord Roberts dead." However, as time went on their knowledge of English increased at a rapid rate. But it was camp English—Australasian at that—and when they took to airing it in the streets of Cairo things happened. They were especially disrespectful to the Kaiser, inventing fancy diseases for him every day, and prefacing each item with the usual: "Very goot news——" One of the institutions of Egypt is the Bootblack Brigade. We struck it in full force at Cairo. No sooner did you step out of the train there than your ears were assailed by a shrill chorus of, "Mister, clean 'im boots." There was only one thing to do—let them clean them. It was no good trying to dodge those boys; they were out to black your boots, and they meant to black them or perish in the attempt. You gained nothing by bolting into a pub or restaurant; no sooner were you seated comfortably than they had you bailed up by the leg and their brushes going at forty horse-power. Even boarding an electric car didn't fill the bill; they just chased the car till it pulled up, hopped on board, and got to work. Swearing had no effect; calling their parents names had less—they were used to it. Let them earn the usual half-piastre and you could call them and their forefathers all the names in the Bible. You found yourself entirely in their hands; go where you would those Cairo bootblacks ran you down. It is a gay old city, is Cairo. It is the home of Eastern curios, priceless fabrics, beautiful pottery, good coffee, bad liquor, donkeys, dirt, vermin, ear-splitting noises, and rampant vice. You can get as much of each of these goods as you like. East and West certainly do meet in Cairo. But they don't mix—for obvious reasons.