ence, and to whom you have given protection." Here my
spine took the form of a horseshoe curve--Moorish pattern. "As to these
dogs of Armenians" (this last was Joe's, given with a growl to show his
deep detestation of the race--part of his own, if he would but
acknowledge it), "your Excellency will look out for them." He WAS
looking out for them at the rate of one hundred a day and no questions
asked or answered so far as the poor fellows were concerned.

At this the distinguished Oriental finished rolling his cigarette,
looked at me blandly--it is astonishing how sweet a smile can
overspread the face of a Turk when he is granting you a favor or
signing the death warrant of an infidel--clapped his hands, summoning
an attendant who came in on all fours, and whispered an order in the
left ear of the almost prostrate man. This done, the Pasha rose from
his seat, straightened his shoulders (no handsomer men the world over
than these high-class Turks), shook my hand warmly, gave me the Turkish
salute--heart, mouth, and forehead touched with the tips of flying
fingers--and bowed me out.

Once through the flat leather curtain that hid the exit door of the
Pasha's office, and into the bare corridor, I led Joe to a corner out
of the hearing of the ever-present spy, and, nailing him to the wall,
propounded this query:

"What did the High-Pan-Jam say, Joe?"

Hornstog raised his shoulders level with his ears, fanned out his
fingers, crooked his elbows, and in his best conglomerate answered:

"He say, effendi, that a guard of ein men, Yusuf, his name--I know
him--he is in the Secret Service--oh, we will have no trouble with
him--" Here Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger with the movement of a
paying teller counting a roll. "He come every morning to Galata Bridge
for you me. He say, too, if any trouble while you paint I go him--ah,
effendi, it is only Joe Hornstog can do these things. The Pasha, he
know me--all good Turk-men know me. Where we paint now, subito? In the
plaza, or in the patio of the Valedee, like last year?"

"Neither. We go first to the Mosque of Suleiman. I want the view
through the gate of the court-yard, with the mosque in the background.
Best place is below the cafe. Pick up those traps and come along."

Thus it was that on this particular summer afternoon Joe and I found
ourselves on the shadow side of a wall up a crooked, break-neck street
paved with rocks, each as big as a dress-suit case, from which I