There is always a crowd here. Many come for the excitement; others because of the grand opportunity afforded them to study these queer people from all lands. The red fez abounds, but everyone wearing it is not necessarily a Turk or an Arab, or even an Algerian. It is the head gear of the Midway, and those who have business here don it as a matter of course.
In his way, Aleck Craig is something of a philosopher. He has not been abroad, but takes an intense interest in the strange things of other lands, and perhaps it is the opportunity presented by this gathering of nations that causes him to haunt the Midway. His muttered words would indicate another motive also.
As a relief from the turmoil that is so incessant, the Canadian turns into the Turkish bazaar near by. Here are booths after booths of embroideries, trinkets, rugs, and the various goods to be found in Constantinople, from jewelry to the quaint but expensive swords used by the Moslem people of the Orient. Some of these booths are presided over by boys and young men. They may be Jews, but the red fez gives them a Turkish appearance. So with the young women. They are hardly Orientals, for they speak clear English, and the customs of Turkey forbid the presence of a female on the streets unless the detestable yashmak conceals her face.
Here the noise is less intense. Aleck has many times retired to this place for rest. It is a gaudy scene when lighted up, and he would always remember it in days to come.
Being socially inclined, he has made several acquaintances in the bazaar, with whom he stops from time to time and chats. One of these is a Turk of middle age, a man of stout figure and closely cropped beard in which the gray is sprinkled like pepper and salt. Aleck finds much to interest him in the conversation of Aroun Scutari, the dealer in precious stones of the Turkish bazaar.
The other has traveled all over Europe, has been in the Egyptian army, and impresses the Canadian as a remarkable man. He pays little attention to his business, leaving it almost entirely in the hands of an Armenian, in whom he seems to have implicit confidence. So Craig shrewdly judges that the Turk has hardly come to the great World’s Fair to increase his fortune. Various motives bring men here, and it is hardly right to speculate upon their private reasons.
Leaving the gem dealer, he saunters on to pass a few sentences with a wide-awake foreigner who invites the public to step in and view the beauties of Jerusalem through the aid of stereoscopic views.
Upon passing the glittering booth of Scutari again, he sees the stout Turk in earnest conversation with a man who wears a fez, but who sports a blond mustache, and at sight of whom Aleck receives something of a shock.
Instead of passing out of the bazaar, he lingers around, watching for this individual, who soon comes lounging along, smoking a pipe, with the most careless abandon in the world. A cane of bamboo raps upon his arm: he glances down at the spot, brushes some imaginary dirt from his sleeve, and then raises his eyes to the party at the other end of the cane.
“Wycherley, my boy, how are you?” says that individual, smiling.