“That is a water seller,” exclaimed Zenas.
“Water? Wow! Is water so dear on this range that they can peddle it?”
“Water is the beverage of the Turk. He never touches intoxicants. Unspeakable he may be, but he has that virtue.”
“That may be true,” said Dick; “but he doesn’t keep his streets clean.”
In truth they had emerged into a labyrinth of dark, narrow, and filthy streets, all the charm of the place having disappeared as soon as they were fairly on land. The mosques and towers had vanished, and their surroundings were decidedly repellent. Everywhere was mud, and garbage, and dogs. Of the latter there seemed to be hundreds upon hundreds of every breed and description.
“They are the street cleaners,” explained the professor. “Here no one harms a dog, for if it were not for them the city would become too filthy for human beings to inhabit.”
“Well, I certain am not as much stuck on Constantinople as I was,” growled Brad.
“I must remind you,” said Zenas, “that there is really no such place as Constantinople. The European quarters of the city is called Pera, while the Moslem quarter is Stamboul.”
“Perhaps Brad isn’t stuck on it,” said Dick; “but I am. If this mud gets worse I shall be stuck on it to such an extent that I can’t perambulate. Look here, Mustapha, have we got to foot it all the way to our hotel?”
“No, effendi; we tak’ tram car, we tak’ horse—you choose.”