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.
Everywhere you go you hear the insistent, importunate cry for
backsheesh. Old men, women, children, dragomans, guides, merchants,
and street-venders--all sorts and conditions of men beg for it. They
teach even babies to take hold of your dress and cry for it.
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