Memoirs of an editor : fifty years of American journalism / Edward P. Mitchell.

THE GOLDEN SPIKE AND MANY JOURNEYS 415
with the navigation"; also that "Any boots forbid in
the beddings."
While we were waiting for a train's departure from the
Milan station, a newsvender, shrewdly suspecting the
nationality, thrust up through the carriage door a copy
of Town Topics. "Vara comical!" he said with a grin. I
shook my head. He immediately dove down into his bag
and fished out a number of the North American Review.
"Vara serial!" he announced, and his face assumed a correctly respectful expression.
Once in a Stamboul restaurant a Greek waiter who
prided himself on his knowledge of English set before us
an uncommonly mysterious dish of some gray substance.
Asked as to its origin and constitution, he replied with
dignity: "Eet ee sprance." Perceiving no light of comprehension, he proceeded to explain with a smile of pity, not
perhaps as upon utter impostors but certainly as upon
those who were suspiciously unfamiliar with the language
they pretended to speak: "Prance! Pranz! Pranz Ze
yolk of ze head!"
The vernacular surprise is sometimes the other way.
We happened to be in Damascus on the day of the inauguration of an electric line upon the Street called Straight.
It was a singular experience to assist at modem innovation
in this locality, of all others. The yellow dogs had squatter
rights, as in Constantinople, everywhere on the pave, and
custom respected their sovereignty. Foot passengers went
around them or stepped carefully over them, and the
leaves of Vallambrosa were no thicker than the sleeping
curs on the Damascus car-tracks. Progress was therefore

extremely difficult along the Street called Straight, and
not unattended by tragic incidents. When we reached the
Bab-esh-Sherki, the gate opening out toward the illimitable desert to the east, and were descending thankfully
from the vehicle, I heard "Watch yer step!" from the
platform behind me. I turned in amazement. The conduc