The rest of Perry’s lunch took but a few moments to swallow and he excused himself from the table in a hurry. He had hardly unpacked anything in Cairo, so it was only the work of a minute or two to put back in his suit-case the few articles that had been taken out. He took it to his uncle’s room, left it with the other luggage that was to be sent that afternoon to the hotel beside the Pyramids, and was off. He boarded a trolley car for Ghizeh, but left the car after crossing the Nile, at the opening of the great road bordered with shade-giving lebbek trees that leads straight from Cairo to Ghizeh. One of his fellow-passengers remarked that it wasn’t considered wise in Egypt to walk when there was a chance to ride, but Perry, with American independence, decided that he would go ahead in spite of any advice, however well-meant, and set out alone along the road. There is, perhaps, no well-trodden road in the world more picturesque than the road between Cairo and Ghizeh. From all the deserts to the west come the caravans to Cairo, the old capital of Egypt throughout the centuries of Mohammedan rule. This was the first time that Perry had been alone since his arrival on the shores of Africa, and the spirit of adventure was strong upon him. There came towards him a long train of camels, heavily laden, bringing loads of dates from some oasis far beyond the horizon. He longed for a knowledge of Arabic that he might be able to question the white-robed leaders of the camels concerning their lives beyond that waste of sand; and started, with a sudden shock, as a loud “honk honk” behind him caused him to turn and see a motor-car of the very latest model come racing by. He met itinerant cooks, carrying their kitchens with them, ready to squat on the roadside and cook a meal for a hungry passer-by, and the boy had to rub his eyes when he looked from them to the gleaming metals of the trolley-car line. An Egyptian cavalry officer, resplendent in gold lace, cantering towards the town, smiled at the trudging lad, while fellahs in tarboosh and galabeah stalked by unheeding. Here and there a hadj or holy pilgrim passed, his green turban showing that he had made the pilgrimage to Mecca, the place of Mohammed’s death. For quite a space the road seemed to be the highway of the orient alone, and then there came towards him a carriage, with two prettily gowned women, probably, Perry thought, the wife and daughter of some English Government official, and these, too, smiled at the lithe American lad swinging along with eagerness and wonder in his step.