first nation of the lot.  It’s a great feather in the cap of our financiers.  It gives us a splendid start for the new era of reconstruction that we are beginning on.  As you perhaps have heard we are all hugely busy about it.  You notice my books and papers, do you not?” the Sultan added very proudly, waving his hand towards a great pile of blue books, pamphlets and documents that were heaped upon the floor beside him.

“Why!  I never knew before that you ever read anything!” I exclaimed in amazement.

“Never did.  But everything’s changed now, isn’t it, Toomuch?  I sit and work here for hours every morning.  It’s become a delight to me.  After all,” said Abdul, lighting a big cigar and sticking up his feet on his pile of papers with an air of the deepest comfort, “what is there like work?  So stimulating, so satisfying.  I sit here working away, just like this, most of the day.  There’s nothing like it.”

“What are you working at?” I asked.

“Reconstruction,” said the little man, puffing a big cloud from his cigar, “reconstruction.”

“What kind of reconstruction?”

“All kinds—­financial, industrial, political, social.  It’s great stuff.  By the way,” he continued with great animation, “would you like to be my Minister of Labour?  No?  Well, I’m sorry.  I half hoped you would.  We’re having no luck with them.  The last one was thrown into the Bosphorous on Monday.  Here’s the report on it—­no, that’s the one on the shooting of the Minister of Religion—­ah! here it is—­Report on the Drowning of the Minister of Labour.  Let me read you a bit of this:  I call this one of the best reports, of its kind, that have come in.”

“No, no,” I said, “don’t bother to read it.  Just tell me who did it and why.”

“Workingmen,” said the Sultan, very cheerfully, “a delegation.  They withheld their reasons.”

“So you are having labour troubles here too?” I asked.

“Labour troubles!” exclaimed the little Sultan rolling up his eyes.  “I should say so.  The whole of Turkey is bubbling with labour unrest like the rosewater in a narghile.  Look at your tablets, Toomuch, and tell me what new strikes there have been this morning.”

The aged Secretary fumbled with his notes and began to murmur—­“Truly will I try with the aid of Allah—­”

“Now, now,” said Abdul, warningly, “that won’t do.  Say simply ‘Sure.’  Now tell me.”

The Secretary looked at a little list and read:  “The strikes of to-day comprise—­the wig-makers, the dog fanciers, the conjurers, the snake charmers, and the soothsayers.”

“You hear that,” said Abdul proudly.  “That represents some of the most skilled labour in Turkey.”

“I suppose it does,” I said, “but tell me Abdul—­what about the really necessary trades, the coal miners, the steel workers, the textile operatives, the farmers, and the railway people.  Are they working?”

The little Sultan threw himself back on his cushions in a paroxysm of laughter, in which even his ancient Secretary was feign to join.