heavily-bearded Oriental, this Pasha, with an eye
that burned holes in you. "You should await a
more peaceful season, effendi, for your art."

"On account of the Armenians, your Excellency?"
I ventured to inquire with a smile.

"Yes." This, in translation by Joe, came with
a whistling sound, like the escaping steam of a
radiator.

"But why should I fear these disturbers of the
peace, your Supreme Highness? The Turk is my
friend, and has been for years. They know me and my
pure and unblemished life. They also know by this
time that I have been one of the chosen few among
nations who have enjoyed your Highness's confidence,
and to whom you have given protection."
Here my spine took the form of a horseshoe curve--
Moorish pattern. "As to these dogs of Armenians"
(this last was Joe's, given with a growl to show his
deep detestation of the race--part of his own, if he
would but acknowledge it), "your Excellency will
look out for them." He WAS looking out for them
at the rate of one hundred a day and no questions
asked or answered so far as the poor fellows were
concerned.

At this the distinguished Oriental finished rolling
his cigarette, looked at me blandly--it is astonishing