I travel along for some time after nightfall, in hopes of reaching a village, but none appearing, I finally decide to camp out.  Choosing a position behind a convenient knoll, I pitch the tent where it will bo invisible from the road, using stones in lieu of tent-pegs; and inhabiting for the first time this unique contrivance, I sup off the grapes remaining over from the bountiful feast at noon-and, being without any covering, stretch myself without undressing beside the upturned bicycle; notwithstanding the gentle reminders of unsatisfied hunger, I am enjoying the legitimate reward of constant exercise in the open air ten minutes after pitching the tent.  Soon after midnight I am awakened by the chilly influence of the “wee sma’ hours,” and recognizing the likelihood of the tent proving more beneficial as a coverlet than a roof, in the absence of rain, I take it down and roll myself up in it; the thin, oiled cambric is far from being a blanket, however, and at daybreak the bicycle and everything is drenched with one of the heavy dews of the country.  Ten miles over an indifferent road is traversed next morning; the comfortless reflection that anything like a “square meal” seems out of the question anywhere between the larger towns scarcely tends to exert a soothing influence on the ravenous attacks of a most awful appetite; and I am beginning to think seriously of making a detour of several miles to reach a mountain village, when I meet a party of three horsemen, a Turkish Bey — with an escort of two zaptiehs.  I am trundling at the time, and without a moment’s hesitancy I make a dead set at the Bey, with the single object of satisfying to some extent my gastronomic requirements.

“Bey Effendi, have you any ekmek?” I ask, pointing inquiringly to his saddle-bags on a zaptieh’s horse, and at the same time giving him to understand by impressive pantomime the uncontrollable condition of my appetite.  With what seems to me, under the circumstances, simply cold-blooded indifference to human suffering; the Bey ignores my inquiry altogether, and concentrating his whole attention on the bicycle, asks, “What is that?” “An Americanish araba, Effendi; have you any ekmek ?” toying suggestively with the tell-tale slack of my revolver belt.

“Where have you come from?” “Stamboul; have you ekmek in the saddle-bags, Effendi.” this time boldly beckoning the zaplieh with the Bey’s effects to approach nearer.

“Where are you going?” “Yuzgat! ekmek! ekmek!” tapping the saddle-bags in quite an imperative manner.  This does not make any outward impression upon the Bey’s aggravating imperturbability, however; he is not so indifferent to my side of the question as he pretends; aware of his inability to supply my want, and afraid that a negative answer would hasten my departure before he has fully satisfied his curiosity concerning me, he is playing a. little game of diplomacy in his own interests.