others.

"What do you suppose is that man's nationality?" I asked Will, shouting
to him because of the roar, although he sat next me.

"Ermenie!" said a Turk next but one beyond Will, and spat venomously,
as if the very name Armenian befouled his mouth.

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.