our minds that afternoon to try out our new camp kitchen--a contraption
of wood and iron we had built with the aid of the mission carpenter.
And the walk to the hotel would have been a long one, through Tarsus
mud in the dark, with prowling dogs to take account of.

"I'm not afraid of ten of him!" said I. "I know how to cook curried
eggs; come on!"

"Who said who was afraid?"

So we went out into darkness already jeweled by a hundred lanterns,
dodged under the necks of three hungry Bactrian camels (they are
irritable when they want their meal), were narrowly missed by a mule's
heels because of the deceptive shadows that confused his aim, tripped
over a donkey's heel-rope, and found our stairway--thoroughly well
cursed in seven languages, and only just missed by a Georgian gentleman
on the balcony, who chose the moment of our passing underneath to
empty out hissing liquid from his cooking pot.

Once in our four-square room, with the rags on the floor in our especial
honor, and our beds set up, and the folding chairs in place, contentment
took hold of us; and as we lighted the primus burner in the cooking
box, we pitied from the bottom of compassionate young hearts all
unfortunates in stiff white shirts, whose dinners were served that
night on silver and laundered linen.

Through the partly open door we could smell everything that ever
happened since the beginning of the world, and hear most of the elemental
music--made, for instance, of the squeal of fighting stallions, and
the bray of an amorous he-ass--the bubbling complaint of fed camels