intervals with the men who sat near him at the end of the room on our right, but used at least six other languages with any one who cared to agree or disagree with him. His rather agreeable voice had the trick of carrying words distinctly across the din of countless others.
"What do you suppose is that man's nationality?" I asked Will, shouting to him because of the roar, although he sat next me.
"Ermenie!" said a Turk next but one beyond Will, and spat venomously, as if the very name Armenian befouled his mouth.
But I was not convinced that the man with the aquiline nose was Armenian. He looked guilty of altogether too much zest for life, and laughed too boldly in Turkish presence. In those days most Armenians thereabouts were sad. I called Will's attention to him again.
"What do you make of him?"
"He belongs to that quieter party in the opposite corner." (Will puts two and two together all the time, because the heroes of dime novels act that way.) "They're gipsies, yet I'd say he's not—"
"He and the others are jingaan," said a voice beside me in English, and I looked into the Persian's gentle brown eyes. "The jingaan are street robbers pure and simple," he added by way of explanation.
"But what nationality?"
"Jingaan might be anything. They in particular would call themselves Rommany. We call them Zingarri. Not a dependable people—unless—"
I waited in vain for the qualification. He shrugged his shoulders, as if there was no sense in praising evil qualities.
But I was not satisfied yet. They were swarthier and
