seeing the bicycle in action, and of introducing a novelty into the festivities of the evening, ask me to come ashore and be their guest until the arrival of the next Ismiclt boat — a matter of three days.  Offer declined with thanks, but not without reluctance, for these Greek merry-makings are well worth seeing.  The Ismidt packet, like everything else in Turkey, moves at a snail’s pace, and although we got under way in something less than an hour after the advertised starting-time, which, for Turkey, is quite commendable promptness, and the distance is but fifty-five miles, we call at a number of villages en route, and it is 6 P.M. when we tie up at the Ismidt wharf.

“Five piastres, Effendi,” says the ticket-collector, as, after waiting till the crowd has passed the gang-plank, I follow with the bicycle and hand him my ticket.

“What are the five piastres for.”  I ask.  For answer, he points’ to my wheel.  “Baggage,” I explain.

“Baggage yoke, cargo,” he replies; and I have to pay it.  The fact is, that, never having seen a bicycle before, he don’t know whether it is cargo or baggage; but whenever a Turkish official has no precedent to follow, he takes care to be on the right side in case there is any money to be collected; otherwise he is not apt to be so particular.  This is, however, rather a matter of private concern than of zealousness in the performance of his official duties; the possibilities of peculation are ever before him.

While satisfying the claim of the ticket-collector a deck-hand comes forward and, pointing to the bicycle, blandly asks me for backsheesh.  He asks, not because he has put a finger to the machine, or been asked to do so, but, being a thoughtful, far-sighted youth, he is looking out for the future.  The bicycle is something he never saw on his boat before; but the idea that these things may now become common among the passengers wanders through his mind, and that obtaining backsheesh on this particular occasion will establish a precedent that may be very handy hereafter; so he makes a most respectful salaam, calls me “Bey Effendi,” and smilingly requests two piastres backsheesh.  After him comes the passport officer, who, besides the teskeri for myself, demands a special passport for the machine.  He likewise is in a puzzle (it don’t take much, by the by, to puzzle the brains of a Turkish official), because the bicycle is something he has had no previous dealings with; but as this is a matter in which finances play no legitimate part — though probably his demand for a passport is made for no other purpose than that of getting backsheesh — a vigorous protest, backed up by the unanimous, and most certainly vociferous, support of a crowd of wharf-loafers, and my fellow-passengers, who, having disembarked, are waiting patiently for me to come and ride down the street, either overrules or overawes the officer and secures my relief.  Impatient at consuming a whole day in reaching Ismidt,