“Yes. H’m. It is necessary. I am waiting.” Perry wondered what it could be for which the old artist was waiting, and he realized that his neighbor was eccentric, if not, indeed, a little queer. But he liked him tremendously, just the same. As the lebbek trees stopped, the road swerved round and led to a big building which Perry at once recognized to be the hotel, but the artist struck off by a path to the side, out toward a clump of date-palms. There he stopped. Before them, now sharply outlined, stood the three great and the six smaller pyramids of Ghizeh, and silhouetted against the sky, near the Second or Cephren pyramid, was the bold block of the sphinx. A feeling stole over Perry that the artist was praying, and he wondered. But it was not a question that could be asked. For at least half an hour, the artist stood there, motionless. Perry fidgeted, impatient to press on, but he could not find the heart to leave his new-found friend. At last the artist picked up the canvas that he had leant against one of the palms, and started on. Following a path that the boy could hardly trace, he skirted to the southward of the group of pyramids and halted at last, beside a flat boulder, about two hundred paces from the Sphinx. Stooping, he drew from under the boulder a tattered blanket which he laid on the stone, set up his easel, a little to his left, not as though he were going to work, and fell into a brown study. Twice Perry spoke to him, but received no answer. At last, deciding that his presence was no longer welcome, he said: “Good-bye, and thank you.” “H’m,” replied the artist, breaking the long silence. “Euclid turned into music. H’m. I shall be here to-night,” and relapsed into contemplation. By this time the afternoon was drawing on and Perry realized that if he wanted to see anything of the Pyramids, he had better hurry. As soon as he came near, he was assailed by a hideous outcry of guides and donkey boys, clamoring for employment and for baksheesh—in other words, begging—to all of which Perry turned a deaf ear until an athletic young Arab, with snapping eyes, said in good English, “Want to go to top?” “You bet,” replied the lad, then, seeing that this was not understood, continued, “Yes.” “Twenty piastres,” the guide demanded. As Perry had learned that a piastre was worth only a trifle less than a nickel, he did not deem a dollar too much, and promptly agreed. Whereupon the guide called, and another equally athletic Arab joined them. “Twenty piastres,” he said in a mournful voice. Perry protested. For all he knew, the whole tribe might come around demanding the same twenty piastres, and the lad’s purse was slim. His father had given him enough spending money, but by no means too much. “Twenty piastres to this one,” he said, pointing to the first Arab who had spoken to him. “No go alone,” was the reply. “Always two.”