The chöpdji (dustman) and the bekdji (night watch man) are the most important and necessary servants of a Turkish quarter. The bekdji receives a monthly salary from the big houses of five piastres, and from small houses of two and a half piastres; and as a rule the chopdji receives the same, but sometimes he gets less than the bekdji. The latter is the individual who calls out in a loud, melancholy, and far-resounding voice, "Yangin Var!" ("There is a fire") to announce the outbreak of a fire in any part of Constantinople or its suburbs.

"Yangin Var!" sounds somewhat like this:

Yan-gin Var Bala - ta da-

This cry is not unmusical, especially if one happens to own some uninhabitable but heavily insured houses in the street where the fire is raging. But, as a rule, considering the terrible conflagrations which have devastated Stamboul, it is a cry which causes panic.

The brave bekdji runs very swiftly, yelling all the time at the top of his voice, and always taking care to give the name of the place where the conflagration has occurred. This he does so that kindly hearted people may go and loot the houses which are supposed to be on fire, but which very often are not on fire at all. Foreigners have sometimes the greatest difficulty in keeping those would-be "rescuers" out of their houses on such an occasion; and, even if there is a fire, they always prefer the fire to the firemen. The latter are scantily clad, run swiftly, and remind one very much of those bare-limbed, lightly clad youths whom one sometimes sees practising for a race by running after night-fall around Lincoln's Inn Fields and other London squares. They carry with them on their shoulders a most exiguous and antiquated fire-engine, looking like a big squirt and quite unsuited for putting out an ordinary kitchen-fire, much less a conflagration. The men chant some weird chant as they race along, and the first time I saw them I was convinced that they constituted a religious procession carrying the Ark of the Covenant, the Beard of the Prophet, or some such holy relic. And, to crown all, they have a curious theory that sea-water will not extinguish flames, a theory which has led to the loss of more than one splendid palace washed by the very waters of the Bosphorus.

Despite the fact that he is such an unmitigated nuisance, the bekdji annually bothers the neighbourhood for a "tip." The "festive season" which he chooses for this infliction is the feast of the Shaiker Bairam, the three days feast following Ramazan or Ramadan, the annual Mohammedan fast of thirty days or one lunar month, when it is the custom for all the Turks to exchange presents of sweetmeats. At this time both the chopdji and the bekdji call at each of the houses in their quarter to wish their victims a happy New Year, and to offer them some Bairam sweets. They each carry a tray of sweets and say, "May your Bairam be happy!" ("Baïramlariniz Moubarek Oulsoun!") In reality, however, their object is to receive their annual Backsheesh, or Bairam present.

I am told that similar customs are not quite unknown in England at Christmas-time.

It was, and still is in some parts of Constantinople, the custom of the refuse-gatherer or chöpdji to go about the streets with a basket on his back, and a wooden shovel in his hand, calling out: "Refuse removed! Refuse removed! Refuse!"

These words do not lend themselves very well to poetry; and, indeed, some English lady tourists who were once ravished by this melancholy call of a good-looking young chöpdji were shocked when the cry was translated for them. Yet, for (all that, those words constitute quite a musical street cry, something like this

Dust man Dust man Dust

Chop dji chop dji chöp

Now it came to pass that a certain chöpdji had, in the course of five years of assiduous labour, amassed the not unimportant sum of five hundred piastres. He was afraid to keep this money by him; so, hearing the kadi of Stamboul highly and reverently spoken of, he decided to entrust his hard-earned savings to the kadi's keeping.

Going to the kadi, he said: "Oh learned and righteous man, for five long years have I laboured, carrying the dregs and dross of rich and poor alike, and I have saved a sum of five hundred piastres. With the help of Allah, in another two years, I shall have saved a further sum of at least one hundred piastres, when, Inshallah! I shall return to my country and clasp my wife and children in my arms again. In the meantime you will grant a boon to your slave, if you will consent to keep this money for me until the time for my departure has come."

The kadi replied: "Thou hast done well, my son. I swear by the solemn oath of divorce that this money will be kept faithfully and returned unto thee when required."

[1] The poor chöpdji departed, well satisfied. But after a very short time he learned that several of his friends were about to return to their memleket (province) and he decided to join them, thinking that his five hundred piastres were ample for the time being. "Besides," said he, "who knows what may or may not happen in the next two years?" So he decided to depart with his friends at once.

He went to the kadi, explained that he had changed his mind, that he was going to leave for his country immediately, and asked for his money.

The kadi called him a dog and ordered him to be whipped out of the place by his servants. Alas! what could the poor chöpdji do? He wept in impotent despair, as he counted the number of years he must yet work before he beheld his loved ones.

One day, while removing the refuse from the konak of a wealthy pasha, his soul uttered a sigh which reached the ears of the hanoum, and from the window she asked him why he sighed so deeply.

He replied that he sighed for something that could in no way interest her. The hanoum's sympathy was excited, however; and finally, with tears in his eyes, the chöpdji consented, after much coaxing, to tell her of his great misfortune.

The hanoum thought for a few minutes and then told him to go the following day to the kadi at a certain hour and again ask for the money as if nothing had happened.

The hanoum in the meantime gathered together a quantity of jewellery, to the value of several hundred pounds, and, instructing her favourite and confidential female slave to come with her to the kadi, she told her to remain outside whilst she went in. She also told the slave that when she saw the chopdji come out with his money, she, the slave, was to enter the kadi's room hurriedly and to say to her mistress, "Your husband has arrived from Egypt, and is waiting for you at the konak."

The hanoum then went to the kadi, carrying in her hand a bag containing the jewellery. With a profound salaam she said: "Oh, kadi, my husband, who is in Egypt and who has been there for several years, has at last asked me to come and join him there. These jewels are, however, of great value, and I hesitate to take them with me on so long and dangerous a journey. If you would kindly consent to keep them for me until my return, I will think of you with lifelong gratitude. And in case I never return, you may keep them in token of my esteem."

The hanoum then began displaying the rich jewellery. Just at that moment the chöpdji entered, and, bending low, said: "Oh, master, your slave has come for his savings in order that he may proceed to his country."

"Ah! welcome!" said the kadi, "So you are going already!" And immediately he ordered the treasurer to pay the five hundred piastres to the chöpdji.

"You see," said the kadi to the hanoum, "what confidence the people have in me. This money I have held for some time without receipt or acknowledgment; but directly it is asked for it is paid."

No sooner had the chöpdji gone out of the door, than the hanoum's slave came rushing in: "Hanoum effendi! hanoum effendi!" she cried, "your husband has arrived from Egypt, and is anxiously awaiting you at the konak."

On hearing this, the hanoum, in well-feigned excitement, gathered up her jewellery, and, wishing the kadi a thousand years of happiness, departed.

The kadi was thunderstruck, and, caressing his beard with grave affection, thoughtfully said to it: "For forty years have I been a judge, but never before, by Allah, has a cause been pleaded here in this fashion."