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. “Do my eyes deceive me--can I believe the evidence of my vision? Is it Aleck Craig, or his double?” says the party addressed, slowly putting out his hand to meet that proffered him. The clasp of the muscular Canadian comes direct from the heart, and Wycherley shows signs of sudden devotion--although no muezzin chants the _aden_, or call to prayer, from the minaret of the Mohammedan mosque near by, he makes a move as though about to drop to his knees. “Mercy, you Canadian bear. Now I know you are Aleck. No other man has a grip like that. Keep it, I beg, for your fellow-athletes. I believe you’ve crushed the bones in my hand. I’ll beware of you next time. Now what brings you here--how long do you stay--what business are you in?” He rattles these sentences off in a dramatic way, for having once been a Thespian, a wandering “barn-stormer,” Claude Alan Wycherley could not even ask a waiter for a little more hash without throwing into the simple request an oratorical effect so picturesque, that the poor devil would be apt to drop the plate in his sudden trepidation. “Of course I’m doing the Fair, and, as you know my failing with regard to studying human nature, you can understand this quaint Midway has strong attractions for me,” answers the Canadian. “So they all say! Everyone comes here to study human nature,” laughs the ex-actor, waving his pipe around--they have stepped outside and are on the edge of the multitude thronging the Plaisance--“but I give you the benefit of the doubt, my boy. Yes, I do remember your penchant of old. Nor have I forgotten that I owe my life to the champion of the Montreal Snowshoe Club.”