We were presented to the kaimakam, and the official congratulated the Englishman on belonging to that great race which had so long befriended the Turks. To me he said he thought it wonderful that a great New York paper would send so youthful a man so many miles on so important a mission.
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-five,’ I replied.
‘You look eighteen.’ He did not ask why I wore no moustache, probably fearing it was because I could not. The Turk is a gentleman.
Information had evidently been given by our escort that we carried revolvers, for two officers entered the room through a door at the back, drew up chairs, and seated themselves immediately behind us. But we did not attempt to shoot the kaimakam. Another officer, perhaps the spy attached to the governor, also entered and occupied a seat beside his quarry.
Then the kaimakam brought his compliments to an end and sat silent. Nobody spoke for forty seconds. We sought to end the uneasy interview, and informed the kaimakam, what we were sure he already knew, that we were on our way to Garbintzi.
‘The fight is over; the troops have just returned,’ he informed us.
‘That is unfortunate,’ I replied, ‘but as we have come this far I guess we’ll visit the scene.’
But the kaimakam guessed we wouldn’t.
‘I have orders,’ he said, ‘to prevent you from going any further. You must return to Veles.’