But I was not convinced that the man with the aquiline nose was Armenian.  He looked guilty of altogether too much zest for life, and laughed too boldly in Turkish presence.  In those days most Armenians thereabouts were sad.  I called Will’s attention to him again.

“What do you make of him?”

“He belongs to that quieter party in the opposite corner.” (Will puts two and two together all the time, because the heroes of dime novels act that way.) “They’re gipsies, yet I’d say he’s not—­”

“He and the others are jingaan,” said a voice beside me in English, and I looked into the Persian’s gentle brown eyes.  “The jingaan are street robbers pure and simple,” be added by way of explanation.

“But what nationality?”

“Jingaan might be anything.  They in particular would call themselves Rommany.  We call them Zingarri.  Not a dependable people—­unless—­”

I waited in vain for the qualification.  He shrugged his shoulders, as if there was no sense in praising evil qualities.

But I was not satisfied yet.  They were swarthier and stockier than the man who had interested me, and had indefinite, soft eyes.  The man I watched had brown eyes, but they were hard.  And, unlike them, he had long lean fingers and his gestures were all extravagant.  He was not a Jew, I was sure of that, nor a Syrian, nor yet a Kurd.

“Ermenie—­Ermenie!” said the Turk, watching me curiously, and spitting again.  “That one is Ermenie.  Those others are just dogs!”

The crowd began to thin after a while, as men filed out to feed cattle and to cook their own evening meal.  Then the perplexing person got up and came over toward me, showing no fear of the Turk at all.  He was tall and lean when he stood upright, but enormously strong if one could guess correctly through the bulky-looking outer garment.

He stood in front of Will and me, his strong yellow teeth gleaming between a black beard and mustache.  The Turk got up clumsily, and went out, muttering to himself.  I glanced toward the corner where the self-evident gipsies sat, and observed that with perfect unanimity they were all feigning sleep.

“Eenglis sportmen!” said the man in front of us, raising both hands, palms outward, in appraisal of our clothes and general appearance.

It was not surprising that he should talk English, for what the British themselves have not accomplished in that land of a hundred tongues has been done by American missionaries, teaching in the course of a generation thousands on thousands. (There is none like the American missionary for attaining ends at wholesale.)

“What countryman are you?” I asked him.

“Zeitoonli,” he answered, as if the word were honor itself and explanation bound in one.  Yet he looked hardly like an honorable man.  “The chilabi are staying here?” he asked.  Chilabi means gentleman.

“We wait on the weather,” said I, not caring to have him turn the tables on me and become interrogator.