voice, to keep down the excitement and the wild shouts of “Bin bacalem! bin bacalem.” (Hide, so that we can see — an innovation on bin, bin, that has made itself manifest since crossing the Kizil Irmak Kiver) that are raised, gradually swelling into the tumultuous howl of a multitude.  The uproar is deafening, and, long before reaching the place, the Caimacan repents having brought me out.  As for myself, I certainly repent having come out, and have still better reasons for doing so before reaching the safe retreat of Tifticjeeo-ghlou Effendi’s house, an hour afterward.  The most that the inadequate squad of zaptiehs present can do, when we arrive opposite the muncipal konak, is to keep the crowd from pressing forward and overwhelming me and the bicycle.  They attempt to keep open a narrow passage through the surging sea of humans blocking the street, for me to ride down; but ten yards ahead the lane terminates in a mass of fez-crowned heads.  Under the impression that one can mount a bicycle on the stand, like mounting a horse, the Caimacan asks me to mount, saying that when the people see me mounted and ready to start, they will themselves yield a passage-way.  Seeing the utter futility of attempting explanations under existing conditions, amid the defeaning clamor of " Bin bacalem! bin bacalem ’” I mount and slowly pedal along a crooked “fissure” in the compact mass of people, which the zaptiehs manage to create by frantically flogging right and left before me.  Gaining, at length, more open ground, and the smooth road continuing on, I speed away from the multitude, and the Caimacan sends one fleet-footed zaptieh after me, with instructions to pilot me back to Tifticjeeoghlou’s by a roundabout way, so as to avoid returning through the crowds.  The rabble are not to be so easily deceived and shook off as the Caimacan thinks, however; by taking various short cuts, they manage to intercept us, and, as though considering the having detected and overtaken us in attempting to elude them, justifies them in taking liberties, their “Bin bacalem!” now develops into the imperious cry of a domineering majority, determined upon doing pretty much as they please.  It is the worst mob I have seen on the journey, so far; excitement runs high, and their shouts of “Bin bacalem!” can, most assuredly, be heard for miles.  We are enveloped by clouds of dust, raised by the feet of the multitude; the hot sun glares down savagely upon us; the poor zaptieh, in heavy top-boots and a brand-new uniform, heavy enough for winter, works like a beaver to protect the bicycle, until, with perspiration and dust, his face is streaked and tattooed like a South Sea Islander’s.  Unable to proceed, we come to a stand-still, and simply occupy ourselves in protecting the bicycle from the crush, and reasoning. with the mob; but the only satisfaction we obtain in reply to anything we say is " Bin bacalem.”  One or two pig-headed, obstreperous young men near us, emboldened by our apparent helplessness, persist