CHAPTER VIII

ARRESTED

Two years abroad passed quickly, and Takvor was planning to spend his second summer vacation in Constantinople with his people. His father had written that the Turkish police were making it difficult for Armenians to travel in their own country, or to return from foreign lands, and he took his passport to the Turkish consul, to be assured that it was in perfect order.

The steamship from Marseilles was moored to the Galata quay, near the custom house, and Takvor, with traveling bag in hand, started down the gangway. It was in the early morning, and though he was not expecting anybody, he scanned the faces of the crowd below. To avoid delay, he held his passport open for inspection, and the Turkish official, polite as he always is to the well-dressed stranger, examined it; and then motioning to a policeman standing near, he gave it to him with the single word “Armenian,” and directed Takvor to follow the officer.

“Is my passport not correct? Is it not properly viséed?”

The official only shrugged his shoulders, and the policeman gave a coarse laugh.

He could therefore do nothing but follow the officer to the little building near the custom house. A guard was standing at the entrance, and at the farther end of the room sat the chief inspector of passports, a fat, surly old Turk, who glanced up as Takvor entered, and without interrupting his work motioned him to be seated. Presently a second policeman led in another Armenian, clad in rags, one of the miserable creatures of his race. He was not told to sit down.

An hour passed.

“I must be going home,” said Takvor; “will you not kindly examine my passport and release me?”

“Presently,” replied the Turk, politely enough, but without looking up from his papers.

Before noon two other Armenians were brought in. The official ate his lunch, and resumed his work. Takvor, disgusted, took up his bag and started toward the door; a soldier stepped before him, and he sat down again. It was four o’clock when the official ceased his work and looked about the room.

“What is your name?” he asked, looking first at Takvor and then at the passport.

“Takvor Bedirian.”

“Where have you been?”

“In England.”

“Hm,” said the official, making a wry face. “What were you doing there?”

“I was at a university.”

“At a university, eh? Isn’t our university good enough for you? What were you doing at a university? You went there to learn anarchy, did you?” exclaimed the official, in assumed anger, and he plied question after question so rapidly that Takvor could not answer.

“How did you earn your living?” he continued, when his pretended wrath had subsided.

“My father paid my expenses.”

“Your father paid your expenses, did he? Who is your father?”

“Herant Bedirian, the chief superintendent of His Majesty’s silk factories.”

The official hesitated.

“How long have you been away?”

“Two years.”

“Were you supported in England by an Armenian committee?”

“No; I have already said that my father paid my expenses.”

“Does your father give money to any Armenian committee?”

“No.”

“Have you any weapons?”

“No.”

“Search him.”

The soldier to whom the order was directed went through Takvor’s pockets, took out his purse, gazed at it as if he would appropriate the contents, and then, seeing the eyes of his chief upon him, slowly returned it. A small pearl-handled penknife excited the official’s suspicion.

“You said you had no weapons,” he roared. “Soldier, make a note of that.”

The traveling bag was opened, and every scrap of paper was examined; but as nothing more seditious than a suit of clothes was found, the examination came to an end, and the Turk, motioning to Takvor to be seated, turned to the next Armenian.

“But is my passport not in order?” insisted Takvor. “Why should I be detained longer?”

“Presently,” was the reply.

The other Armenians were questioned and searched with less civility than had been shown to Takvor, for they wore the dress of the peasant. They were poor harmless fellows from small villages in the interior. One had come to Constantinople to see a sick mother, another to visit a brother. Finally, when they had all been examined, the official approached Takvor, and took up his traveling bag.

“I will keep it for you.”

“But I am going home, and I shall take it with me.”

“You are going to Stamboul, and I shall keep it until you return.”

“And why to Stamboul?”

“I have no power to release you; you must explain to the authorities why you went away.”

Takvor expostulated in vain. Almost before he realized it, several soldiers were marching him and the other Armenians along the quay to the police boat, which was waiting to take them across the Golden Horn to Stamboul. They disembarked and entered a narrow street. It was then that Takvor realized where he was going; for just ahead were the great, dingy stone walls of the Buyuk Zaptieh, one of the most horrible prisons in the Turkish Empire. They turned in at the gate. Passing through the courtyard, the soldiers pushed Takvor and his companions into a gloomy cell, fastened the door, and went away.