The Italian went with us to the bazaars one morning to look at some rugs, but he took us only to second-hand dealers, until we protested. ‘We do not want old rugs,’ we said. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘you want young ones.’ The Hôtel Belgrade was, as you might imagine, kept by a Servian. It was a most depressing place--except for the amusing Italian. Its bare board floors were regularly scrubbed, and we seldom found extraneous things in either the food or the beds. Nevertheless, there was a bad smell about the place, from the garbage in the street, and much noise from miserable dogs in front of it, which came for the garbage. The front door was braced with stout props, which were set in place every evening soon after twelve o’clock, Turkish, this being sundown; but the doors of the rooms were without bolts. The steep staircase was lighted with smoky kerosene lanterns, the bedrooms were supplied with tallow candles. The dining-room was a gruesome place. Life-size prints of King Alexander and Queen Draga stared down from the badly papered walls. This was before the assassination of the monarchs; but after the event (which called me to Belgrade) they hung there still. There was no sentiment in the matter; the proprietor simply possessed no portrait of King Peter, and was not prepared to lay out money for new pictures. At the open door to the yard stood a smelly ram that had become bow-legged from its own weight. It was so fat it could hardly waddle, but it was never required to walk further than the length of a short rope. The unfortunate animal was afflicted with the capacious appetite of both goat and pig; it was able to eat anything and continually. And everybody fed it. It got the uneaten vegetables from the ‘potage légumes,’ fins of the fish if there was ‘poisson’ on the menu, bits of daily lamb; even the stumps of cigarettes thrown in its direction were promptly swallowed. Some of us protested to the proprietor, and offered to buy the creature if he would have it killed. ‘What!’ exclaimed the horrified Servian; ‘kill my luck? Stomackovitch has brought good fortune to this house for eleven years!’ The bow-legged ram with the insatiable capacity had been tied in the hotel yard ever since it was a frisky lamb. I became disgusted with the hotel, and tried the khans; but I had run out of Keating’s. I had made friends with the missionaries (one needs no introductions in Macedonia), and by frequent visits at the mission I found that they were in the habit of having waffles for breakfast, Indian corn for dinner, and home-made biscuits for supper. These attractions of the American home were irresistible, and I applied to Mr. and Mrs. Bond for permanent board and lodging. Now, the missionaries are Puritan people, and while more than anxious for the society of a fellow-countryman, they hesitated at taking me, fearing that perhaps I was afflicted with evil habits; so before adopting me the dear old people put me to a test.