Suddenly, while we were at dinner, a bell was heard, and the half-caste clerk entered.

"So-and-so of Shiraz," naming an official, "wants to speak to you." "All right," replied G----.
"Just tell him to wait till I've finished my cheese!" "It's from F----," he said, a few moments later, "to say he expects you to make his house your head-quarters at Shiraz." So the stranger is passed on through this desert, but hospitable land.

Persian travel would be hard indeed were it not for the ever-open doors and hospitality of the telegraph officials.
We continue our journey next day in summer weather--almost too hot, in the middle of the day, to be pleasant.

Sheepskin and bourka are dispensed with, as we ride lazily along under a blazing sun through pleasant green plains of maize and barley, irrigated by babbling brooks of crystal-clear water.

A few miles from Abadeh is a cave-village built into the side of a hill.