A Fantasy of Mediterranean Travel | Page 5

and
that their tours averaged thousands of miles. The man from the stogie
sections does not, of course, fear to fire his fusee in this company and
he always does it--it keeps up the steam.

A row of three extinct volcanoes was frequently to be seen seated side
by side in the smoking-room, where they recounted the scenes of their
youth with evident gusto. One would recall the days of '49, spring of
'50, and tell his companions all about the excitement of mining in those
early times,--"Glorious climate, California!" was the way he usually
wound up his reminiscences. Another would draw his picture of the
firing on Fort Sumter, and would assert that the battle of Antietam in
which he took part was the hottest of the war. The favorite topic of the
third raconteur was the flush times on Oil Creek in the early '60's, when
he had drilled a dry hole near "Colonel Drake's" pioneer venture. And
so it would go till it was time to "douse the glim." One thing they all
agreed on--that the whiskey was good but the drinks were small on the
Cork.
[Illustration: THE PARTHENON, ATHENS, GREECE--THE MOST
IMPRESSIVE RUIN IN EXISTENCE]
There was a young southern Colonel on board who was a charming
companion and a good-natured, all-round fellow, always willing to do
anything for anybody, young or old. The ladies soon found out his
weakness, and they "pulled his leg" "right hard," as he would have put
it. When ashore he bought them strawberries, ice-cream, wine,
confectionery, lemonade, and anything else he could think of. He was a
veritable packhorse, and many times when he was already loaded with
impedimenta they would, as a matter of course, toss him wraps,
umbrellas and fans, followed by photo's, bric-à-brac and other
purchases, till the man was fairly loaded to the gunwales. This they
would do with an airy grace all their own, remarking perhaps:
"Here, Colonel, I see you haven't much to carry; take this on board for
me like a good boy, won't you?"
He stood the strain like a Spartan to the bitter end, and when the trip
was over he, like Lord Ullen, was left lamenting in the shuffle of the
forgotten, and didn't even get a kiss in the final good-byes, when they
fell as thick as the leaves in Vallombrosa.
The most picturesque and amusing man on board was a Mexican rubber

planter from Guadalajara, known on the ship's list as Señor Cyrano de
Bergerac. He hadn't a Roman nose--but that's a mere detail; he had a
Numidian mane of blue-black hair which swung over his collar so that
he looked like the leader of a Wild West show. He was a contradiction
in terms: his voice proclaimed him a man of war, while all the fighting
he ever did, so far as we knew, was with the flies on the Nile. To look
at him was to stand in the presence of a composite picture of
Agamemnon, Charles XII. and John L. Sullivan; but to hear him
shout--ah! that voice was the megaphone of Boanerges! It held tones
that put a revolving spur on every syllable and gave a dentist-drill
feeling as they ploughed their way through space. It was alleged that
when he struck his plantation and shouted at the depot as he leaped
from the train that he had arrived, all the ranch hands fell down and
crossed themselves, thinking it was the sound of the last trump and
their time had come. We have no actual proof of it, but undoubtedly
these announcements were heard on Mars, and might better be utilized
as signals to that planet than anything that has yet been suggested. He
had a fatal faculty of stringing together big words from Webster's
"Unabridged," and connecting them with conjunctions quite
irrespective of the sense, so that the product was like waves of hot air
from a vast, reverberating furnace. It was the practice of this orator to
jump from his seat at all gatherings without warning, and make
detonating announcements on all kinds of subjects to the utterly
helpless passengers, the captain, the officers and the stewards. These
hardy sons of the sea, who had often faced imminent danger, would
visibly flinch, set their faces and cover their ears till the ordeal was
over. But they were never safe, as he made two or three announcements
daily, and they had to listen to his thunder in all parts of the ship till it
returned to New York. His incessant shouting was a flock of dinosauria
in the amber of repose; it upset our nerves, but as it added to our
opportunities for killing time, many forgave him and thought him well
worth the price of admission. In many respects his disposition was