We weren't the only people in the train; our car, for instance, was fairly well occupied by Armenians, Arabs, and folk whose vague nationality came under the general heading of Levantine.

The car ahead where the fight took place, though not crowded, wasn't vacant, and there were others in the car behind.

Yet not one of them made a move to interfere.

They minded their own business, which proves, I think, that manners are based mainly on discretion.
As the train gasped slowly up the grade and rolled bumpily at last along the fertile, neglected Syrian highland, all the Armenians on the train removed their hats and substituted the red tarboosh, preferring the headgear of a convert rather than be the target of every Bedouin with a rifle in his hand.
The whole journey was a mix-up of things to wonder at--not least of them the matter-of-fact confidence with which the train proceeded along a single track, whose condition left you wondering at each bump whether the next wouldn't be the journey's violent end.

There were lamps, but no oil for light when evening came.