braves the displeasure of his own people; smiling complacently at their shouts of disapproval, he triumphantly bears it out of their sight and from the fell influence of the possible fenna ghuz.  Another strange and seemingly paradoxical phase of these occasions is that when the crowd is shouting out its noisiest protests against the withdrawal of the machine from popular inspection, any of the protestors will eagerly volunteer to help carry the machine inside, should the self-important personage having it in custody condescend to make the slightest intimation that such service would be acceptable.  Handing over the bicycle, then, to the safe-keeping of a respectable kahuay-jee (coffee khan employee) I sally forth in quest of eatables.  The kah vay-jee has it immediately carried inside and set up on one of the divans, in which elevated position he graciously permits it to be gazed upon by the people, who swarm into his khan in such numbers as to make it impossible for him to transact any business.  “Under the guidance of another volunteer, who, besides acting the part of guide, takes particular care that I get lumping weight, etc., I proceed to the ett-jees and procure some very good mutton-chops, and from there to the ekmek-jees for bread.  This latter person straightway volunteers to cook my chops.  Sending to his residence for a tin dish, some chopped onions and butter, he puts them in his oven, and in a few minutes sets them before me, browned and buttered.  Meanwhile, he has despatched a youth somewhere on another errand, who now returns and supplements the savory chops with a small dish of honey in the comb and some green figs.  Seated on the generous-hearted ekmek-jee’s dough-board, I make a dinner good enough for anybody.

While discussing these acceptable viands, I am somewhat startled at hearing one of the worst “cuss-words " in the English language repeated several times by one of the two Turks engaged in the self-imposed duty of keeping people out of the place while I am eating — a kindly piece of courtesy that wins for them my warmest esteem.  The old fellow proves to be a Crimean veteran, and, besides a much-prized medal he brought back with him, he somehow managed to acquire this discreditable, perhaps, but nevertheless unmistakable, memento of having at some time or other campaigned it with “Tommy Atkins.”  I try to engage him in conversation, but find that he doesn’t know another solitary word of English.  He simply repeats the profane expression alluded to in a parrot-like manner without knowing anything of its meaning; has, in fact, forgotten whether it is English, French, or Italian.  He only knows it as a “Frank” expression, and in that he is perfectly right:  it is a frank expression, a very frank expression indeed.  As if determined to do something agreeable in return for the gratifying interest I seem to be taking in him on account of this profanity, he now disappears, and shortly returns with a young man,