"But Osman does not drink, he attends to the Prophet's laws."
"Osman is a horse; he does not know what is good," was the reply.
At this moment the voice of the Bey was heard. "Gell!" (come) resounded through the building; the negro, leaving me, hurried off to his master.
It was a nine hours' march to Mudurlu, our next halting-place, the route leading through a very mountainous district. The village, or small town, of Mudurlu contains 800 mud houses, which, at the average rate of five people to a family, would give about 4000 inhabitants. The traveller, when journeying in this part of Anatolia, is much struck by the absence of shops. He may pass through village after village, small town after small town, and, unless it be market day, he will be unable to purchase anything.
"Can I buy some meat?" I would inquire of Osman.
"We will see, Effendi. I will run to the Khan, and inquire of the people there."
This was Osman's favourite amusement. Under the pretence of making purchases, he would go to the different Khans, talk for some time to the assembled villagers about his own merits, drink several cups of coffee, and return.
"Well, where is the meat?"
"Have you been to look?"