Part 18 (2/2)

”Well, Mollie,” he said, ”I've seen it all. That guide down stairs showed me everything in the place and I'm going to retire to my carpet-bag again until you're ready to start for Kayzoozalum----”

”Swizz-izzer-land,” whistled Whistlebinkie.

”Switzerland,” said Mollie.

”Well wherever it is we're going Alp hunting,” said the Unwiseman. ”I'm too tired to say a word like that to-night. My tongue is all out of shape anyhow trying to talk French and I'm not going to speak it any more. It's not the sort of language I admire--just full o' nonsense.

When people call pudding 'poo-dang' and a bird a 'wazzoh' I'm through with it. I've seen 8374 miles of pictures; some more busted statuary; one cathedral--I thought a cathedral was some kind of an animal with a hairy head and a hump on its back, but it's nothing but a big overgrown church--; Napoleon's tomb--he is dead after all and France is a Republic, as if we didn't have a big enough Republic home without coming over here to see another--; one River Seine, which ain't much bigger than the Erie Ca.n.a.l, and not a trout or a snapping turtle in it from beginning to end; the Boys de Bologna, which is only a Park, with no boys or sausages anywhere about it; the Champs Eliza; an obelisk; and about sixteen palaces without a King or an Umpire in the whole lot; and I've paid three dollars for it, and I'm satisfied. I'd be better satisfied if I'd paid a dollar and a half, but you can't travel for nothing, and I regard the extra dollar and fifty cents as well spent since I've learned what to do next time.”

”Wa.s.s-that?” whistled Whistlebinkie.

”Stay home,” said the Unwiseman. ”Home's good enough for me and when I get there I'm going to stay there. Good night.”

And with that the Unwiseman jumped into his carpet-bag and for a week nothing more was heard of him.

”I hope he isn't sick,” said Whistlebinkie, at the end of that period.

”I think we ought to go and find out, don't you, Mollie.”

”I certainly do,” said Mollie. ”I know I should be just stufficated to death if I'd spent a week in a carpet-bag.”

So they tip-toed up to the side of the carpet-bag and listened. At first there was no sound to be heard, and then all of a sudden their fears were set completely at rest by the cracked voice of their strange old friend singing the following patriotic ballad of his own composition:

”Next time I start out for to travel abroad I'll go where pure English is spoken.

I'll put on my shoes and go sailing toward The beautiful land of Hoboken.

”No more on that movey old channel I'll sail, The sickening waves to be tossed on, But do all my travelling later by rail And visit that frigid old Boston.

”Nay never again will I step on a s.h.i.+p And go as a part of the cargo, But when I would travel I'll make my next trip Out west to the town of Chicago.

”My sweet carpet-bag, you will never again Be called on to cross the Atlantic.

We'll just buy a ticket and take the first train To marvellous old Williamantic.

”No French in the future will I ever speak With strange and impossible, answers.

I'd rather go in for that curious Greek The natives all speak in Arkansas.

”To London and Paris let other folks go I'm utterly cured of the mania.

Hereafter it's me for the glad Ohi-o, Or down in dear sweet Pennsylvania.

”If any one asks me to cross o'er the sea I'll answer them promptly, 'No thanky-- There's beauty enough all around here for me In this glorious land of the Yankee.'”

Mollie laughed as the Unwiseman's voice died away.

”I guess he's all right, Whistlebinkie,” she said. ”Anybody who can sing like that can't be very sick.”

”No I guess not,” said Whistlebinkie. ”He seems to have got his tongue out of tangle again. I was awfully worried about that.”

”Why, dear?” asked Mollie.

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