Ranjoor Singh, striding in front of us with the staff officer at his side, shook the rain from his shoulders and said nothing.
We were marched to a ferry and taken across what I know now was the Golden Horn; and there was so much mist on the water that at times we could scarcely see the ferry.

Many troopers asked me if we were not already on our way to Gallipoli, and I, knowing no more than they, bade them wait and see.
On the other side of the Golden Horn we were marched through narrow streets, uphill, uphill, uphill to a very great barrack and given a section of it to ourselves.

Ranjoor Singh was assigned private quarters in a part of the building used by many German officers for their mess.

Not knowing our tongue, those officers were obliged to converse with him in English, and I observed many times with what distaste they did so, to my great amusement.

I think Ranjoor Singh was also much amused by that, for he grew far better humored and readier to talk.
Sahib, that barrack was like a zoo--like the zoo I saw once at Baroda, with animals of all sorts in it!--a great yellow building within walls, packed with Kurds and Arabs and Syrians of more different tribes than a man would readily believe existed in the whole world.