Standing behind the chief, who sits cross-legged on a Persian nummud, is a handsome, intelligent-looking man, who seems to be the most pleasant-faced and entertaining conversationalist of the nomads.  The kahn grows particularly talkative and communicative, the evening hours flow on, and while addressing his remarks and queries directly to the chief, he gazes about him to observe the effects of his words on the general assembly gathered inside and crowded about the tent-entrance.  The pleasant-faced man does far more talking in reply than does the chief himself.  In reply to the khan’s innumerable queries he replies, in the peculiar, hissing shibboleth of the camp, “O, O, O-O bus-s-s-orah, b-s-s-s-orah.”  Sometimes the khan delivers himself of quite a lengthy disquisition, and as his remarks are followed by the assembled nomads with the eager interest of people who seldom hear anything but the music of their own voices, the interesting individual above referred to sprinkles his assenting “O, O, O” thickly along the line of the khan’s presumably edifying narrative; now and then the chief himself chimes in with a quiet “b-s-s-s-orah.”  Here also, in this camp of surprises and innovations, do I first hear the word “India” used in lieu of “Hindostan” among Asiatics.

The fatigue of the day’s journey, and the imperfect rest of the two preceding nights, cause me to be overcome with drowsiness, early in the evening, and I stretch oat alongside the bicycle and fall into a deep sleep.  An hour or two later I am awakened for the evening meal.  Flat, pancake-like sheets of unleavened bread, inferior to the bread of Persia, and partaking somewhat of the character of the chupalties of India, boiled goat, and the broth preserved from the same, together with the regulation mast and doke, constitute the Eimuek supper.  A liberal bowl of the broth, an abundance of meat, bread, mast and doke are placed before me on a separate wooden tray, while my escort, the chief, and several of his men gather around a communal spread of the same variety of edibles.  A crowd of curious people occupy the remainder of the space inside, and stand at the door.  As I rise and prepare to eat, all eyes are turned upon me as though anticipating some surprising exhibition of the strange manners of a Ferenghi at his meals.  Surveying the broth, I motion the khan to try and obtain a spoon.  The chief looks inquiringly at the khan, and the khan with the gladsome expression of a person conscious of having on hand a rare piece of information for his friends, explains that a Ferenghi eats soup with a spoon.  The chief and his men smile incredibly, but the khan emphasizes his position by appealing to the mirza and the mudbake for confirmation.  “Eat soup with a spoon?” queries the chief in Persian; and he casts about him a look of unutterable astonishment.