“Paruski ni?” he replies, arching his eyebrows and smiling.

“Paruski ni; Ingilis.”

“Parsee namifami?”

“Parsee kam-kam.”

In this brief interchange of words in the vernacular of the country we define at once each other’s nationality and linguistic abilities.  He is a Russian and can speak a little Persian.  It is difficult, however, to believe him anything else than a little French professor, wise above his generation and skin-full of occult wisdom in some particular branch of science; but then the big round spectacles, the red dressing-cap, and the cerulean leather slippers of themselves impart an air of owlish and preternatural wisdom.

Six times during the afternoon he bounces into my quarters and shakes hands, and six times shakes hands and bounces out again.  Every time he renews his visit he introduces one or more natives, who take as much interest in the hand-shaking as they do in the bicycle.  Evidently his object in coming round so frequently is to exhibit for the gratification of his own vanity and the curiosity of the Persians, this European mode of greeting, and the profound depth of his own knowledge of the subject.

Later in the evening the women of the village come round in a body to see the Ferenghi and his iron horse, and the wearer of the spectacles, the red cap, and blue slippers, takes upon himself the office of showman for the occasion; pointing out, with a good deal of superficial enthusiasm, the peculiar points of both steed and rider.

Particularly is it impressed upon these woefully ignorant fail-ones, that the bicycle is not a horse, but a machine—­a thing of iron and not of flesh and blood.

The fair ones nod their heads approvingly, but it is painfully apparent that they don’t comprehend in the least, how, since it is an asp-i-awhan, it can be anything else but a horse, regardless of the material entering into its composition.

When supper-time arrives the chapar-Jee announces his willingness to turn cook and prepare anything I order.  Knowing well enough that this seemingly sweeping proposition embraces but two or three articles, I order him to prepare scrambled eggs, bread, and sheerah.  An hour later he brings in the scrambled eggs, swimming in hot molasses and grease!  He has stirred the grease and molasses together, and in this outlandish mixture cooked the eggs.

Off the main road the country assumes the character of low hills of red clay, across which it would be extremely difficult to take the bicycle in wet weather, but which is now fortunately dry.  After three or four farsakhs it develops into a curious region of heterogeneous parts; rocky, precipitous mountains, barren, salt-streaked hills, saline streams, and pretty little green valleys.  Here, one feels the absence of any plain, well-travelled road, the dim and ill-defined trail being at times very difficult to distinguish from the branch trails leading to some isolated village.  The few people one meets already betray a simplicity and a lack of “gumption” that distinguish them at once from the people frequenting the main road.