Aram and his two friends went to ask Badvili Melikian for passes (the boys were not allowed to leave the campus without a written permission); then they went off whistling, on their way to the bazaar.
First they went into a haberdasher’s shop to buy stiff collars and a necktie.
The shopkeeper showed them a box containing a dozen cravats of every color of the rainbow, and the three boys stood hesitating before such magnificence. Aram recommended an apple-green tie and one of cherry-red, by turns.
“The green one,” he said, “is very distingué; but Dikran has a red one that his brother brought home from Beyrout, and he’s just stuck on it. He declares you can’t find anything like it here; it will be an awful blow to him if you buy one.”
Archag, a modern Paris, confronted by the beauties of the cravats, underwent all the torments of indecision. Finally Garabed, who had said nothing, jogged his elbow:
“If I were you, I should take this pale blue one, then you will be wearing the Armenian color,” and he pointed to a cravat of coarse silk and cotton.
Before the beauty of this sky-blue tie, the charms of the two others paled.
“It’s that or none,” said Archag to himself.
But unfortunately, the shopkeeper asked a mejidieh (ninety cents) for it, a fabulous price for a necktie. The three boys simultaneously uttered cries of indignation, and turned to leave the shop.
“Eh, lá, lá, Effendis, not so fast! How much do you offer me?” It was now the shopkeeper’s turn to be alarmed.