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gazed upon the mightiest work of the monarch whose namesake he was. (In fact, he had been named for his uncle Walter; his father had proposed the nickname for him when he was an infant, claiming that the child's imperious manner and single-minded selfishness suggested that most egotistical of pharaohs. The name had stuck, for reasons which should be apparent to all Readers of my chronicles.)

    But what, you may ask, was Ramses doing at the rail of the steamer? He should have been in school.

    He was not in school because the Academy for Young Gentlemen in Cairo had been unable to admit him. That is the word the headmaster used - 'unable.' He claimed they had no room for another boarder. This may have been so. I had no means of proving it was not. I cannot conceive of any other reason why my son should not have been admitted to a school for young gentlemen.

    I do not speak ironically, though anyone who has read certain of my comments concerning my son may suspect I do. The fact is, Ramses had improved considerably in the past few years. (Either that, or I was becoming accustomed to him. It is said that one can become accustomed to anything.)

    He was at this time ten years old, having celebrated his birthday late that summer. Over the past few months he had shot up quite suddenly, as boys do, and I had begun to think he might one day have his father's height, though probably not the latter's splendid physique. His features were still too large for his thin face, but just lately I had discovered a dent or dimple in his chin, like the one that lent Emerson's handsome countenance such charm. Ramses disliked references to this feature as much as his father resented my mentioning his dimple (which he preferred to call a cleft, if he had to refer to it). I am bound to admit that the boy's jet-black curls and olive complexion bore a closer resemblance to a young Arab - of the finest type - than an Anglo-Saxon; but that he was a gentleman, by birth at least, no one could deny. A distinct improvement in his manners had occurred, due in large part to my untiring efforts, though the natural effects of maturation also played a part. Most small boys are barbarians. It is a wonder any of them live to grow up.

    Ramses had lived, to the age of ten at least, and his suicidal tendencies seemed to have decreased. I could therefore contemplate his accompanying us with resignation if not enthusiasm, especially since I had little choice in the matter. Emerson refused to join me in bringing pressure to bear on the headmaster of the Academy for Young Gentlemen; he had always wanted to take Ramses with us to the Sudan.

    I put my hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Well, Ramses, I hope you appreciate the kindness of your parents in providing you with such an opportunity. Impressive, is it not?'

    Ramses's prominent nose quivered critically. 'Ostentatious and grandiose. Compared with the temple of Deir el-Bahri -'

    'What a dreadful little snob you are,' I exclaimed. 'I do hope the antiquities of Napata will measure up to your exacting standards.'

    'He is quite right, though,' said Emerson. 'There is no architectural subtlety or mystery in a temple like that - only size. The temples of Gebel Barkal, on the other hand -'

    'Temples, Emerson? You promised me pyramids.'

    Emerson's eyes remained fixed on the facade of the temple, now fully illumined by the risen sun and presenting a picture of great majesty. 'Er - to be sure, Peabody. But we are limited in our choice of sites, not only by the cursed military authorities but by... by... by a certain individual whose name I have sworn not to pronounce.

    It was I who had requested he abstain from referring to Mr Budge if he could not do so without swearing. (He could not.) Unfortunately I could not prevent others from referring to Budge. He had preceded us, and everyone we met mentioned him, hoping, I suppose, to please us by claiming an acquaintance in common.

    Ramses distracted Emerson by climbing up on the