“A boat!” I commanded, imitating as far as possible my mother’s manner.
The first man of the row put aside his narghile and rose quietly. Unlike all the other nationalities in Turkey, the Turks alone never jostle each other for a fare. They have a system of their own which they scrupulously adhere to.
The caïque-tchi who approached at my summons was an old man. He was dressed in full baggy trousers, and wore a white turban on his head. He must have been already old when Sultan Medjid, thirty years previously, had substituted the fez for the turban, and he had not cared to adopt the new head-dress.
“What does the little hanoum wish?”
“To cross,” I replied, with the same haughty manner as before.
He bent down, unfastened the rope with which his slender, graceful little caïque was tied, and I stepped into it and settled myself blissfully among the cushions in the bottom.
Before he had rowed me half-way over I remembered that I had forgotten to strike a bargain with him. “By the way,” I said casually, “what is your fare?”
“A kourous and a half” (threepence) he said promptly.
“What!” I cried. “If you are not ready to accept half that, you may just as well take me back.”
He stopped rowing. “Take you back! But where would be the profit?”