o’clock, I call for something to satisfy the
cravings of hunger, and am forthwith confronted with
a loaf of black bread, villanously heavy, and given
a preliminary peep into a large jar of a crumbly white
substance as villanously odoriferous as the bread
is heavy, and which I think the proprietor expects
me to look upon as cheese. This native product
seems to be valued by the people here in proportion
as it is rancid, being regarded by them with more
than affection when it has reached a degree of rancidness
and odoriferousness that would drive a European —
barring perhaps, a Limburger — out of the house.
These two delicacies, and the inevitable tiny cups
of black bitter coffee make up all the edibles the
khan affords; so seeing the absence of any alternative,
I order bread and coffee, prepared to make the most
of circumstances. The proprietor being a kindly
individual, and thinking perhaps that limited means
forbid my indulgence in such luxuries as the substance
in the earthenware jar, in the kindness of his heart
toward a lone stranger, scoops out a small portion
with his unwashed hand, puts it in a bowl of water
and stirs it about a little by way of washing it,
drains the water off through his fingers, and places
it before me. While engaged in the discussion
of this delectable meal, a caravan of mules arrives
in charge of seven rough-looking Turks, who halt to
procure a feed of barley for their animals, the supplying
of which appears to be the chief business of the klian-jee.
No sooner have these men alighted and ascertained
the use of the bicycle, than I am assailed with the
usual importunities to ride for their further edification.
It would be quite as reasonable to ask a man to fly
as to ride a bicycle anywhere near the khan; but in
the innocence of their hearts and the dulness of their
Oriental understandings they think differently.
They regard my objections as the result of a perverse
and contrary disposition, and my explanation of mimkin
deyil” as but a groundless excuse born of my
unwillingness to oblige. One old gray-beard,
after examining the bicycle, eyes me meditatively for
a moment, and then comes forward with a humorous twinkle
in his eye, and pokes me playfully in the ribs, and
makes a peculiar noise with the mouth: " q-u-e-e-k,”
in an effort to tickle me into good-humor and compliance
with their wishes; in addition to which, the artful
old dodger, thinking thus to work on my vanity, calls
me “Pasha Effendi.” Finding that toward
their entreaties I give but the same reply, one of
the younger men coolly advocates the use of force
to coerce me into giving them an exhibition of my
skill on the araba. As far as I am able to interpret,
this bold visionary’s argument is: “Behold,
we are seven; Effendi is only one; we are good Mussulmans
— peace be with us — he is but a Frank
— ashes on his head- let us make him bin.”
CHAPTER XII.
THROUGH THE ANGORA GOAT COUNTRY.