CAIRO: THE KING'S JUNGLE
"You will maybe like this!" The Arab demonstrated. What seemed to be an ordinary whip suddenly became a vicious, four-sided, ten-inch dagger tapering to a fine point. "This knife for Yahood. But maybe you Amerikans like Yahood, yes?"
I took no chances. "No, I hate Jews. Allah's curse on them."
THE plane dipped sickeningly. I attempted to struggle upright in my seat but the safety belt held me like a straightjacket. I groaned.
I was in a state of delirium from my cholera shot. There was no doubt that it had taken. A red welt the size of a mushroom was rising rapidly. A high fever ran through me. Twice I had stumbled while walking to the plane, for the fever burned at my temples like a scourge. Once in the plane I had fallen into my seat, and tried to doze off--awakening in fits and starts, each time with a sense of impending doom. Suddenly I let out a cry. Though I thought I had suppressed it, the hostess hurried to my side.
"Look! We're going to hit that mountain!"
"That's the Matterhorn," she said quietly. "We won't hit it."
Matterhorn was a terrifying sight in the blue-white