"What the devil is it all about, Joe? Why, you
look as if you had had the wind knocked out of you."

"Oh, awful close, awful close! I tell you--but
not here. Come, we go 'way--we go now--not stay
here any more. If that officer see the lady with us
the Pasha send me to black mosque for five year and
you find yourself board ship on way to Tripoli. Here
come Yusuf--damn him! You tell him you no like
view of mosque from here--say you find another
place to-morrow--you do this quick. Hornstog
never lie."

On my way across the Galata Bridge to my quarters
in Pera that same afternoon Joe followed until
Yusuf had made his kotow and we had made ours, the
three ending in a triple flight of fingers--waited until
the guard was well on his way back to the Pasha's
office--it was but a short way from the Stamboul end
of the Galata--and drawing me into one of the small
cafes overlooking the waters of the Golden Horn,
seated me at the far end near a window where we
could talk without being overheard. Here Joe ordered
coffee and laid a package of cigarettes on the table.

"My! but that was like the razor at the throat--
not for all the hairs on my head would I had her
look out the small hole in the door when Serim come
along. Somebody must be take care of you, you Joe