“Correct, pard,” agreed Brad. “I can get lost quicker and a heap sight worse in Stamboul than on a trackless desert. We sure must take a dragoman if we’re going to amble over there.”
So the black Nubian, who seemed always waiting for a call, was summoned and instructed to send out for the dragoman engaged by Dick on their arrival, to pilot them from the steamer to their hotel.
In less than thirty minutes Mustapha appeared, salaming in true Turkish fashion, the tassel of his fez sweeping the floor.
“I here, effendi,” he said, addressing the professor. “What you haf of me?”
“We want to visit Stamboul.”
“I good dragoman. I guide you, effendi.”
“Our purpose is to see the great underground cistern sometimes called the Underground Palace.”
“Effendi, go not! Keep from there!” Mustapha showed great concern.
“Why should we not go there?” questioned the professor. “It is one of the great sights.”
“You haf for your life some valuement?”