The first three days of our journey were very happy. In my rôle of “cheerful idiot” I rapidly got on good terms with Bekir and Sabit, the two sentries, and with the drivers of our carts. Beyond insisting on praying before he would do anything they wanted him to do, Hill gave them no trouble at all. So our escort thought they had got a “cushy” job, and a paying one, as an occasional five-piastre note, which escaped the notice of Moïse, came their way. They told Moïse it was a shame to send such a couple of innocents to the “Tobtashay,” and they’d like to look after us till the end of the war. They were soon to change their tune.
Doc. O’Farrell’s hint that a “suicide” would complete the downfall of the Constantinople doctors had not been lost upon us. We had decided to hang ourselves on the way to Angora, and to arrange to be rescued by the Pimple in the nick of time. We told the Doc. of our intention. “If ye do it,” he said with enthusiasm, “there’s not a doctor in Christendom, let alone Turkey, will believe you’re sane!” Then caution supervened, and he tried to dissuade us. He told us uncomfortable details about the anatomy of the neck and the spinal column. He said that theoretically the idea was sound, but practically it was impossible, because it was too dangerous. A fraction of a minute might make all the difference and convert our sham suicide into the genuine article. “One of ye do it,” he suggested, “then the other can be at hand to cut him down if the Turks don’t come.” We objected that, besides being suspicious, this would give one of us an unfair advantage over the other in the eyes of the specialists, and we were determined to do the thing thoroughly and share all risks equally. The Doc. made one last despairing effort.
“Suppose you pull it off and deceive the Turks into thinking it was a genuine attempt,” he said, “what do you think will happen?”
“We’ll be sent home—to England.”
“Aye—you’ll be sent home all right. An’ what do you think your address will be?” He leant forward and tapped my shoulder impressively with a crooked forefinger. “Until I get back to let you out it’s Colney Hatch you’ll be in, and divil a glimpse will ye get of Piccadilly or the French Front or whatever it is ye’re hankering after. Remember, I can’t write and explain—the Turks would hang me if I tried.”
“Once we are in England we can explain matters ourselves,” I laughed.
“An’ who will believe you, with your spooks and your buried treasure and all the rest of it? I tell you, you can explain till you’re blue in the face, but it is mad they’ll label you, and mad you will remain till I get back!”
We said we’d risk that, and Doc. gave up argument and threw himself enthusiastically into the task of helping us to deceive his professional brethren, showing us how to fix the knot with the least danger to ourselves, and telling us how to behave when we came to (if we ever came to), and what to say when we were questioned about the hanging. Matthews got us some suitable rope. We used it, for the time being, to tie up our roll of bedding, and very innocent it looked as we rode along towards Angora. Thus openly did the Pied Piper carry his flute.
“... Smiling the while a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept