We breakfasted in the street, revelling in the early morning and shooing away the children, who never gave us a moment’s grace.  In self-defence we had our boots blacked, for the ambulating bootblack molests no longer the owner of a well-polished pair of boots.  It is queer to walk about in a town where one-third of the population is only pecuniarily interested in the momentary appearance of feet and never look at a face, like the man with the muckrake with eyes glued on life as it is led two inches from the ground.

When we had finished searching for disinfectors and dentists we wandered up the hill through the romantic streets.  Jan sketched busily, but toothache had rather sapped Jo’s industry, and she generally found some large stone to sit on, whence to contemplate.

An old woman’s face, peering round the doorway, discovered her sitting on the doorstep, a Greek dustman gazing stupidly at her.

In two minutes they were talking hard.  The old woman was a Bulgarian, but they were able to understand each other.  What Jo told the old woman was translated to the dustman, and when Jan came up they were introduced each to the other, the dustman with his broom bowing to the ground like some old-time court usher.

Once a Greek woman offered a chair to Jo.  She was much embarrassed, as the only Greek words she had picked up were “How much?” and “Yet another;” and as both seemed unsuitable she tried to put her gratitude into the width of her smile.

We scrambled on ever afterwards through streets which were more like cliff climbs than roads.  The sun grew red till all Salonika lay at our feet a maze of magenta shadow.  We sat down in an old Turkish cemetery, where we could watch the old wall sliding down to plains of gold, where, falling into ruins, it lent its degraded stones for the construction of Turkish hovels.

A kitten with paralysed hind legs crawled up to us and accepted a little rubbing.  When dusk came we moved on, marvelling at the inexhaustible picturesqueness of Salonika.

As we clambered down the breakneck paths, the priests were illuminating the minarets with hundreds of twinkling lights.

The next day was the Feast.  Mahommedans were everywhere.  By the women’s trousers, which twinkled beneath the shrouding veils, one could see that they were gorgeously dressed.  Befezzed men were lounging and smoking in all the cafe’s.

In the evening once more we wandered up through the old Turkish quarter.  We heard a curious noise like a hymn played by bagpipes, rhythmically accompanied in syncopation by a very flabby drum.  Round the corner came four jolly niggers blowing pipes, and the drummer behind them.  Very slim young men with bright sashes and light trousers were twisting, posturing, and dancing joyfully.  One of them threw to Jo the most graceful kiss she had ever seen.

We left Salonika in the morning, having been wakened by new sounds.  Thousands of marching feet, songs.  This was puzzling.