“My friend,” he said.  “I bid you farewell.”

“Where are you going to?” I asked.

“My choice is made,” said Von Boobenstein.  “There are worse things than death.  I am about to surrender myself to the German authorities.”

III.—­Afternoon Tea with the Sultan

A Study of Reconstruction in Turkey

On the very day following the events related in the last chapter, I was surprised and delighted to receive a telegram which read “Come on to Constantinople and write us up too.”  From the signature I saw that the message was from my old friend Abdul Aziz the Sultan.

I had visited him—­as of course my readers will instantly recollect—­during the height of the war, and the circumstances of my departure had been such that I should have scarcely ventured to repeat my visit without this express invitation.  But on receipt of it, I set out at once by rail for Constantinople.

I was delighted to find that under the new order of things in going from Berlin to Constantinople it was no longer necessary to travel through the barbarous and brutal populations of Germany, Austria and Hungary.  The way now runs, though I believe the actual railroad is the same, through the Thuringian Republic, Czecho-Slovakia and Magyaria.  It was a source of deep satisfaction to see the scowling and hostile countenances of Germans, Austrians and Hungarians replaced by the cheerful and honest faces of the Thuringians, the Czecho-Slovaks and the Magyarians.  Moreover I was assured on all sides that if these faces are not perfectly satisfactory, they will be altered in any way required.

It was very pleasant, too, to find myself once again in the flagstoned halls of the Yildiz Kiosk, the Sultan’s palace.  My little friend Abdul Aziz rose at once from his cushioned divan under a lemon tree and came shuffling in his big slippers to meet me, a smile of welcome on his face.  He seemed, to my surprise, radiant with happiness.  The disasters attributed by the allied press to his unhappy country appeared to sit lightly on the little man.

“How is everything going in Turkey?” I asked as we sat down side by side on the cushions.

“Splendid,” said Abdul.  “I suppose you’ve heard that we’re bankrupt?”

“Bankrupt!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” continued the Sultan, rubbing his hands together with positive enjoyment, “we can’t pay a cent:  isn’t it great?  Have some champagne?”

He clapped his hands together and a turbaned attendant appeared with wine on a tray which he served into long-necked glasses.

“I’d rather have tea,” I said.

“No, no, don’t take tea,” he protested.  “We’ve practically cut out afternoon tea here.  It’s part of our Turkish thrift movement.  We’re taking champagne instead.  Tell me, have you a Thrift Movement like that, where you come from—­Canada, I think it is, isn’t it?”