The heat becomes almost unbearable; the region of treeless, shelterless hills continues to characterize my way, and when, at two o'clock P.M., I reach the town of Bey Bazaar, I conclude that the thirty-nine miles already covered is the limit of discretion to-day, considering the oppressive heat, and seek the friendly accommodation of a khan. There I find that while shelter from the fierce heat of the sun is obtainable, peace and quiet are altogether out of the question.

Bey Bazaar is a place of eight thousand inhabitants, and the khan at once becomes the objective point of, it seems to me, half the population. I put the machine up on a barricaded yattack-divan, and climb up after it; here I am out of the meddlesome reach of the " madding crowd," but there is no escaping from the bedlam-like clamor of their voices, and not a few, yielding to their uncontrollable curiosity, undertake to invade my retreat; these invariably "skedaddle" respectfully at my request, but new-comers are continually intruding. The tumult is quite deafening, and I should certainly not be surprised to have the khan-jee request me to leave the place, on the reasonable ground that my presence is, under the circumstances, detrimental to his interests, since the crush is so great that transacting business is out of the question. The khan-jee, however, proves to be a speculative individual, and quite contrary thoughts are occupying his mind. His subordinate, the kahvay-jee, presents himself with mournful countenance and humble attitude, points with a perplexed air to the surging mass of fezzes, turbans, and upturned Turkish faces, and explains - what needs no explanation other than the evidence of one's own eyes - that he cannot transact his business of making coffee.

"This is your khan," I reply; "why not turn them out." "Mashallah, effendi. I would, but for everyone I turned out, two others would come in-the sons of burnt fathers." he says, casting a reproachful look down at the straggling crowd of his fellow-countrymen.

"What do you propose doing, then?" I inquire. "Katch para, effendi," he answers, smiling approvingly at his own suggestion.

The enterprising kahvay-jee advocates charging them an admission fee of five paras (half a cent) each as a measure of protection, both for himself and me, proposing to make a "divvy" of the proceeds. Naturally enough the idea of making a farthing show of either myself or the bicycle is anything but an agreeable proposition, but it is plainly the only way of protecting the kahvay-jee and his khan from being mobbed all the afternoon and far into the night by a surging mass of inquisitive people; so I reluctantly give him permission to do whatever he pleases to protect himself. I have no idea of the financial outcome of the speculative khan- jee's expedient, but the arrangement secures me to some extent from the rabble, though not to any appreciable extent from being worried. The people nearly drive me out of my seven senses with their peculiar ideas of making themselves agreeable, and honoring me; they offer me cigarettes, coffee, mastic, cognac, fruit, raw cucumbers, melons, everything, in fact, but the one thing I should really appreciate - a few minutes quiet, undisturbed, enjoyment of my own company; this is not to be secured by locking one's self in a room, nor by any other expedient I have yet tried in Asia. After examining the bicycle, they want to see my "Alla Franga" watch and my revolver; then they want to know how much each thing costs, and scores of other things that appeal strongly to their excessively inquisitive natures.

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Adapted from Thomas Stevens, Around the World on a Bicycle