Another mountain-pass now has to be climbed; it is only a short distance-perhaps two miles — but all the way up I am subjected to the disagreeable experience of having my footsteps dogged by two armed villagers.  There is nothing significant or exceptional about their being armed, it is true; but what their object is in stepping almost on my heels for the whole distance up the acclivity is beyond my comprehension.  Uncertain whether their intentions are honest or not, it is anything but reassuring to have them following within sword’s reach of one’s back, especially when trundling a bicycle up a lonely mountain-trail.  I have no right to order them back or forward, neither do I care to have them think I entertain suspicions of their intentions, for in all probability they are but honest villagers, satisfying their curiosity in their own peculiar manner, and doubtless deriving additional pleasure from seeing one of their fellow-mortals laboriously engaged while they leisurely follow.  We all know how soul-satisfying it is for some people to sit around and watch their fellow-man saw wood.  Whenever I halt for a breathing-spell they do likewise; when I continue on, they promptly take up their line of march, following as before in silence; and when the summit is reached, they seat themselves on a rock and watch my progress down the opposite slope.

A couple of miles down grade brings me to Torbali, a place of several thousand inhabitants with a small covered bazaar and every appearance of a thriving interior town, as thrift goes in Asia Minor.  It is high noon, and I immediately set about finding the wherewithal to make a substantial meal.  I find that upon arriving at one of these towns, the best possible disposition to make of the bicycle is to deliver it into the hands of some respectable Turk, request him to preserve it from the meddlesome crowd, and then pay no further attention to it until ready to start.  Attempting to keep watch over it oneself is sure to result in a dismal failure, whereas an Osmanli gray-beard becomes an ever-willing custodian, regards its safe-keeping as appealing to his honor, and will stand guard over it for hours if necessary, keeping the noisy and curious crowds of his townspeople at a respectful distance “by brandishing a thick stick at anyone who ventures to approach too near.  These men will never accept payment for this highly appreciated service, it seems to appeal to the Osmanli’s spirit of hospitality; they seem happy as clams at high tide while gratuitously protecting my property, and I have known them to unhesitatingly incur the displeasure of their own neighbors by officiously carrying the bicycle off into an inner room, not even granting the assembled people the harmless privilege of looking at it from a distance — for there might be some among the crowd possessed of the fenna ghuz (evil eye), and rather than have them fix their baleful gaze upon the important piece of property left under his charge by a stranger, he chivalrously