“What do you propose doing, then?” I inquire.  “Katch para, effendi,” he answers, smiling approvingly at his own suggestion.

The enterprising kahvay-jee advocates charging them an admission fee of five paras (half a cent) each as a measure of protection, both for himself and me, proposing to make a “divvy” of the proceeds.  Naturally enough the idea of making a farthing show of either myself or the bicycle is anything but an agreeable proposition, but it is plainly the only way of protecting the kahvay-jee and his khan from being mobbed all the afternoon and far into the night by a surging mass of inquisitive people; so I reluctantly give him permission to do whatever he pleases to protect himself.  I have no idea of the financial outcome of the speculative khan-jee’s expedient, but the arrangement secures me to some extent from the rabble, though not to any appreciable extent from being worried.  The people nearly drive me out of my seven senses with their peculiar ideas of making themselves agreeable, and honoring me; they offer me cigarettes, coffee, mastic, cognac, fruit, raw cucumbers, melons, everything, in fact, but the one thing I should really appreciate — a few minutes quiet, undisturbed, enjoyment of my own company; this is not to be secured by locking one’s self in a room, nor by any other expedient I have yet tried in Asia.  After examining the bicycle, they want to see my “Alla Franga” watch and my revolver; then they want to know how much each thing costs, and scores of other things that appeal strongly to their excessively inquisitive natures.

One old fellow, yearning for a closer acquaintance, asks me if I ever saw the wonderful “chu, chu, chu! chemin defer at Stamboul,” adding that he has seen it and intends some day to ride on it; another hands me a Crimean medal, and says he fought against the Muscovs with the “Ingilis,” while a third one solemnly introduces himself as a “makinis " (machinist), fancying, I suppose, that there is some fraternal connection between himself and me, on account of the bicycle being a makina.

I begin to feel uncomfortably like a curiosity in a dime museum — a position not exactly congenial to my nature; so, after enduring this sort of thing for an hour, I appoint the kahvay-jee custodian of the bicycle and sally forth to meander about the bazaar a while, where I can at least have the advantage of being able to move about.  Upon returning to the khan, an hour later, I find there a man whom I remember passing on the road; he was riding a donkey, the road was all that could be desired, and I swept past him at racing speed, purely on the impulse of the moment, in order to treat him to the abstract sensation of blank amazement.  This impromptu action of mine is now bearing its legitimate fruit, for, surrounded by a most attentive audience, the wonder-struck donkey-rider is endeavoring, by word and gesture, to impress upon them some idea of the speed at which I swept past