the catch.

"Have you an American lady named Miss Vanderman with you?" he repeated.

"Effendi, we do not understand."

He repeated in Armenian, and then in Turkish, but they shook their
heads.

"Very well," he said, "I'll soon find out. A mission-school pupil
might sing My Country, 'Tis of Thee or Suwannee River or Poor Blind
Joe. You know Poor Blind Joe, eh? Sung it in school? I thought
so. I'll bet you don't know this one."

He filled his impudent instrument with wind and forthwith the belly
of that ancient castle rang to the strains of a tune no missionaries
sing, although no doubt the missionary ladies are familiar with it
yet from where the Arctic night shuts down on Behring Sea to the
Solomon Islands and beyond--a song that achieved popularity by lacking
national significance, and won a war by imparting recklessness to
typhus camps. I was certain then, and still dare bet to-day that
those ruined castle walls re-echoed for the first time that evening
to the clamor of '--a hot time in the old town to-night!"

Seeing the point in a flash, we three roared the song together, and
then again, and then once more for interest, the Armenians eying
us spell-bound, at a loss to explain the madness. Then there began
to be unexplained movements behind the blanket hanging; and a minute
later a woman broke through -an unmistakable Armenian, still good-looking
but a little past the prime of life, and very obviously mentally