o’clock, I call for something to satisfy the cravings of hunger, and am forthwith confronted with a loaf of black bread, villanously heavy, and given a preliminary peep into a large jar of a crumbly white substance as villanously odoriferous as the bread is heavy, and which I think the proprietor expects me to look upon as cheese.  This native product seems to be valued by the people here in proportion as it is rancid, being regarded by them with more than affection when it has reached a degree of rancidness and odoriferousness that would drive a European — barring perhaps, a Limburger — out of the house.  These two delicacies, and the inevitable tiny cups of black bitter coffee make up all the edibles the khan affords; so seeing the absence of any alternative, I order bread and coffee, prepared to make the most of circumstances.  The proprietor being a kindly individual, and thinking perhaps that limited means forbid my indulgence in such luxuries as the substance in the earthenware jar, in the kindness of his heart toward a lone stranger, scoops out a small portion with his unwashed hand, puts it in a bowl of water and stirs it about a little by way of washing it, drains the water off through his fingers, and places it before me.  While engaged in the discussion of this delectable meal, a caravan of mules arrives in charge of seven rough-looking Turks, who halt to procure a feed of barley for their animals, the supplying of which appears to be the chief business of the klian-jee.  No sooner have these men alighted and ascertained the use of the bicycle, than I am assailed with the usual importunities to ride for their further edification.  It would be quite as reasonable to ask a man to fly as to ride a bicycle anywhere near the khan; but in the innocence of their hearts and the dulness of their Oriental understandings they think differently.  They regard my objections as the result of a perverse and contrary disposition, and my explanation of mimkin deyil” as but a groundless excuse born of my unwillingness to oblige.  One old gray-beard, after examining the bicycle, eyes me meditatively for a moment, and then comes forward with a humorous twinkle in his eye, and pokes me playfully in the ribs, and makes a peculiar noise with the mouth:  " q-u-e-e-k,” in an effort to tickle me into good-humor and compliance with their wishes; in addition to which, the artful old dodger, thinking thus to work on my vanity, calls me “Pasha Effendi.”  Finding that toward their entreaties I give but the same reply, one of the younger men coolly advocates the use of force to coerce me into giving them an exhibition of my skill on the araba.  As far as I am able to interpret, this bold visionary’s argument is:  “Behold, we are seven; Effendi is only one; we are good Mussulmans — peace be with us — he is but a Frank — ashes on his head- let us make him bin.”

CHAPTER XII.

THROUGH THE ANGORA GOAT COUNTRY.