During the course of my interview at the Sublime Porte I received a cup of delightful coffee, but it was the most expensive cup of coffee I ever drank. I had not provided myself with sufficient small change for a visit to the Turkish Government building. On my departure after the interview his attendants were lined up in the corridor like the servants at a French hotel. I was stripped of my silver and copper, and when I had given my last _metaleek_[2] I hurried out of the door. But, unfortunately, I did not take a carriage, and I had hardly got a hundred yards down the street when a little old Turk, who proved to be the man who had given me the coffee, touched me on the arm, and said, ‘Effendi, backsheesh.’ This coffee-man followed me a quarter of a mile further to the nearest shop, where I changed a lira and gave him his tip. My dragoman explained that unless I distributed backsheesh liberally the Minister would never be in to me again, and, thinking perhaps some day I might have to make another call upon him, I ‘squared’ myself with his doormen. [Illustration: A HAMMAL AND A LOAD OF PETROLEUM TINS.] Unfortunately, on each occasion that I have made the journey from Constantinople to Salonica I have been pressed for time, and could not await a steamer to take me through the Dardanelles. The train makes the trip three times a week, leaving Constantinople at night. About twelve o’clock the first night out a Turkish officer opened the door of my compartment, which I had had to myself up to this time, and entered with a beaming smile and a grand salaam. This was extraordinary; the Turks are generally more dignified or else more subtle. My travelling companion, I saw by his attire, was a pasha. There was not the detachment of troops usually arrayed at the station to do honour to a general about to start on a journey, and three young officers, very likely his adjutants, who were the only friends to see him off, seemed unnecessarily depressed. But the general had mirth enough for the company, and up to the moment the train left he spun yarns and cracked jokes to the torture of the others, who tried loyally to affect amusement. When the third bell sounded for the train to resume its progress the pasha shook hands warmly with his young friends through the window; they pressed their cheeks to his in Turkish fashion, then gave him the low Turkish salute due to his rank. The old man turned to me with a smile, and asked by a sign whether I would have the window closed. I shrugged my shoulders, meaning ‘suit yourself,’ and asked my companion if he could speak French. ‘Turk,’ he replied, meaning only Turkish. I cannot describe exactly how we made each other understand, but before we lay down to sleep I had told him I was an American correspondent, and had learned that his medals were in token of distinguished services in the Russo-Turkish war and elsewhere, and that his destination was Tripoli, which means exile.