had assisted us in mapping out a possible route across the
Celestial empire, although he endeavored, from the very start, to dissuade
us from our purpose. Application had then been made to the Chinese
minister himself for the necessary passport. The reply we received, though
courteous, smacked strongly of reproof. "Western China," he said, "is
overrun with lawless bands, and the people themselves are very much averse
to foreigners. Your extraordinary mode of locomotion would subject you to
annoyance, if not to positive danger, at the hands of a people who are
naturally curious and superstitious. However," he added, after some
reflection, "if your minister makes a request for a passport we will see
what can be done. The most I can do will be to ask for you the protection
and assistance of the officials only; for the people themselves I cannot
answer. If you go into that country you do so at your own risk." Minister
Lincoln was sitting in his private office when we called the next morning
at the American legation. He listened to the recital of our plans, got
down the huge atlas from his bookcase, and went over with us the route we
proposed to follow. He did not regard the undertaking as feasible, and
apprehended that, if he should give his official assistance, he would, in
a measure, be responsible for the result if it should prove unhappy. When
assured of the consent of our parents, and of our determination to make
the attempt at all hazards, he picked up his pen and began a letter to the
Chinese minister, remarking as he finished reading it to us, "I would much
rather not have written it." The documents received from the Chinese
minister in response to Mr. Lincoln's letter proved to be indispensable
when, a year and a half later, we left the last outpost of western
civilization and plunged into the Gobi desert. When we had paid a final
visit to the Persian minister in London, who had asked to see our bicycles
and their baggage equipments, he signified his intention of writing in our
behalf to friends in Teheran; and to that capital, after cycling through
Europe, we were now actually _en route_.

Since the opening of the Trans-Bosporus Railway, the wagon-road to Ismid,
and even the Angora military highway beyond, have fallen rapidly into
disrepair. In April they were almost impassable for the wheel, so that for
the greater part of the way we were obliged to take to the track. Like the
railway skirting the Italian Riviera,