He found small time for sleep, and when dawn came, and four Zeitoonli servants according to Kagig’s promise, they still swarmed around him begging for more.  He went off to eat breakfast with a khan from Bokhara, sitting on a bale of nearly priceless carpets to drink overland tea made in a thing like a samovar.

All the rest of that day, and the next, sleeping only at intervals, while Monty and Will and I helped the Zeitoonli servants get our loads in shape, Fred sharpened his wonder-gift of tongues on the fascinated men of many nations, giving them London ditties and tales from the Thousand Nights and a Night in exchange for their news of caravan routes.  He left them well pleased with their bargain.

Monty went off alone the second day to see about mules.  The Turk with a trade to make believes that of several partners one is always “easier” than the rest; consequently, one man can bring him to see swifter reason than a number can.  He came back that evening with twelve good mules and four attendants.

“One apiece to ride, and two apiece to carry everything.  Not another mule to be had.  Unpack the loads again and make them smaller!”

Fred came and sat with us that night before the charcoal brazier in his and Monty’s room.

“They all talk of robbers on the road,” he said.  “Northward, through the Circassian Gates, or eastward it’s all the same.  There’s a man in a room across the way who was stripped stark naked and beaten because they thought he might have money in his clothes.  When he reached this place without a stitch on him he still had all his money in his clenched fists!  Quite a sportsman—­what?  Imagine his juggling with it while they whipped him with knotted cords!”

“What have you heard about Kagig?”

“Nothing.  But a lot about vukuart.* It’s vague, but there’s something in the air.  You’ll notice the Turkish muleteers are having nothing whatever to say to our Zeitoonli, although they’ve accepted the same service.  Moslems are keeping together, and Armenians are getting the silence cure.  Armenians are even shy of speaking to one another.  I’ve tried listening, and I’ve tried asking questions, although that was risky.  I can’t get a word of explanation.  I’ve noticed, though, that the ugly mood is broadening.  They’ve been polite to me, but I’ve heard the word shapkali applied more than once to you fellows.  Means hatted man, you know.  Not a serious insult, but implies contempt.”

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* Turkish word:   happenings, a euphemism for massacre.
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Nothing but comfort and respectability ever seemed able to make Fred gloomy.  He discussed our present prospects with the air of an epicure ordering dinner.  And Monty listened with his dark, delightful smile —­the kindliest smile in all the world.  I have seen unthoughtful men mistake it for a sign of weakness.