“That’s just it!” chuckles the Greek. “It covers a hollow, sure enough—look here, Effendi!”
He taps thrice upon the “piece of board,” which suddenly swings back like a door, disclosing to my astonished eyes, in the dark hollow, the long blue robe, white turban, and flowing beard of an old Turk.
“Peace be with you!” says the old gentleman in a deep hoarse voice, nodding to my companion, whom he seems to know.
“With you be peace,” answers the Greek. “You didn’t expect that, did you, Effendi? It’s not every day that you find a man living inside a tree?”
“Does he live here, then?”
“To be sure he does. Didn’t you see his slippers at the door? Nobody would touch the slippers for any money. They all know old Selim. He has a snug house, after all; and don’t pay rent either!”
In truth, the little place is snug enough, and certainly holds a good deal for its size. On one side is an earthen water-jar, on the other a huge blanket-like cloak, which probably represents Mr. Selim’s whole stock of bedding. A copper stew-pan is fixed to a spike driven into the wood, while just above it a small iron funnel, neatly fitted into a knot-hole of the trunk, does duty as a chimney. Around the sides of the hollow hang a long pipe, a tobacco-pouch, a leathern wallet, and some other articles, all bearing marks of long service; while to crown all, my guide shows me, triumphantly, just outside the door, a wooden shelf with several pots of flowers—a garden that just matches the house.
Having given us this sight of his house-keeping, the old gentleman (who has been standing like a statue during the whole inspection) silently holds out his hand. I drop into it a double piastre (ten cents) and take my leave, reflecting that if it is good to be content with little this old hermit is certainly a bit of a hero in his way.