A certain man was wont to tell his son, while thrashing him, that he would never come to any good. The boy grew tired of these rebukes, and ran away from home. Ten years later he had risen to the rank of pasha, and was set over the very pashalik where his father lived. On his way to his post, the new pasha stopped at a place twenty miles off, and said to the Bashi-Bazouks of his guard: ‘Ride to such and such a village, seize so and so, and bring him to me.’ The Bashi-Bazouks arrived at night, dragged the sick old man out of bed, and took him to the pasha. The pasha stretched himself to his full height, and, ordering the old man to look him in the face, said: ‘Do you know me?’ The old man fixed his gaze on the pasha, and cried: ‘Ah, pasha! you are surely my son.’ ‘Did you not tell me in my boyhood that I should never come to any good? Now look at me,’ and the pasha pointed to his epaulets. ‘Well, was I wrong? You are no man, but only a pasha. What man worthy the name would send for his father in the way you have done? I repeat it, you have gained the rank of pasha, but you have not become a good man.’