we progress, and, by the time we arrive at the konak gate there is a regular crush.  In spite of the frantic exertions of my escort, the mob press determinedly forward, in an attempt to rush inside when the gate is opened; instantly I find myself and bicycle wedged in among a struggling mass of natives; a cry of “Sakin araba! sakin araba!” (Take care! the bicycle!) is raised; the zapliehs make a supreme effort, the gate is opened, I am fairly carried in, and the gate is closed.  A couple of dozen happy mortals have gained admittance in the rush.  Hundreds of the better class natives are in the inclosure, and the walls and neighboring house-tops are swarming with an interested audience.  There is a small plat of decently smooth ground, upon which I circle around for a few minutes, to as delighted an audience as ever collected in Bamum’s circus.  After the exhibition, the Mutaserif eyes the swarming multitude on the roofs and wall, and looks perplexed; some one suggests that the bicycle be locked up for the present, and, when the crowds have dispersed, it can be removed without further excitement.  The Mutaserif then places the municipal chamber at my disposal, ordering an officer to lock it up and give me the key.  Later in the afternoon I am visited by the Armenian pastor of Yuzgat, and another young Armenian, who can speak a little English, and together we take a strolling peep at the city.  The American missionaries at Kaizarieh have a small book store here, and the pastor kindly offers me a New Testament to carry along.  We drop in on several Armenian shopkeepers, who are introduced as converts of the mission.  Coffee is supplied wherever we call.  While sitting down a minute in a tailor’s stall, a young Armenian peeps in, smiles, and indulges in the pantomime of rubbing his chin.  Asking the meaning of this, I am informed by the interpreter that the fellow belongs to the barber shop next door, and is taking this method of reminding me that I stand in need of his professional attentions, not having shaved of late.  There appears to be a large proportion of Circassians in town; a group of several wild-looking bipeds, armed a la Anatolia, ragged and unkempt-haired for Circassians, who are generally respectable in their personal appearance, approach us, and want me to show them the bicycle, on the strength of their having fought against the Russians in the late war.  “I think they are liars,” says the young Armenian, who speaks English; “they only say they fought against the Russians because you are an Englishman, and they think you will show them the bicycle.”  Some one comes to me with old coins for sale, another brings a stone with hieroglyphics on it, and the inevitable genius likewise appears; this time it is an Armenian; the tremendous ovation I have received has filled his mind with exaggerated ideas of making a fortune, by purchasing the bicycle and making a two-piastre show out of it.  He wants to know how much I will take for it.  Early daylight finds me astir