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.)