The town was resuming its normal quiet and we began to inquire for excitement elsewhere. The Englishman in some way got a tip that trouble was brewing in Monastir, and he and I made ready to disappear one morning, leaving the other correspondents in the dark as to where we had gone. It was now necessary for him to secure a _teskeré_--I already possessed one and needed but to have mine viséd. On application to his Consul for this document he was advised to designate himself ‘artist,’ as the word ‘correspondent’ always shocks the Turk. (The correspondent represented the _Graphic_.) But the Turkish official must have a reason for everything, and the first question of the dignitary who drafts the passports was, why an _artiste_ desired to go to Monastir. ‘To see the country--among other things,’ said the Englishman. ‘I understand it is very fine.’ ‘The country is magnificent,’ replied the Turk, ‘but the café-chantants are all closed now.’ The café-chantant _artiste_ was the only artist known to this enlightened official. We had thought that all the live insurgents had left Salonica and we were going on their trail. But one desperate dynamiter had remained in town, and was doomed to die before we left. He chose the hour and place himself: about two o’clock of the day before we left, within a stone’s throw of the Angleterre. It was a rainy day, and we--the whole corps of correspondents--were lingering over our lunch at the time, idly speculating on ‘What next?’ when several shots rang out almost in front of the place. At the first everyone jumped up, expecting either a dynamite attack on ‘Europeans’ or a massacre of Christians. We were both. But the firing stopped almost the instant it had begun, and we moved towards the door. There the crowd hesitated for a moment, but those--of us behind--forced the front file out into the street. Curiosity soon got the better of fear, and three minutes after the shooting we were ‘on the spot.’