Months afterward, in the city of Lahore, India, an American found the coat of the emir of Bokhara spread on the floor of a bazaar, as is the manner in which the traders of the East show their wares. It had come in with a camel train from the North, the merchant said. He had bought it from a trader, who had traded for it still further North. That trader in turn had bought it from a man from Bokhara, with whom he had passed a night at one of those caravansaries where camel drivers and muleteers sleep side by side with their faithful beasts. The man from Bokhara had told the story of the emir's coat, and in the morning the bargain was struck over a cup of thick, sweet coffee and a pipe with a hoselike stem. The coat changed hands, and began its long journey and with it another kingly garment of as royal design if of less regal color.

Yank Golfer Tricked by an African Gambler
Paris.—One of the queerest golf stories of the season is told by Col. Robert M. Thompson, president of the American-Olympic committee, who has just sailed for home. The colonel and his Soudanese bodyguard were sailing down the Nile from Khartoum at a time when the river was very low, and their paddle-wheeler was forced to stop many times. On these occasions the colonel would alight on the shore, accompanied by his Soudanese valet, and play a few holes of golf. The black boy developed his game until he could give the white man a very good fight indeed. 