“It's a place; a consulate somewhere or other.”
“Never heard of it Have you, Digby?”
“It sounds like Calabria, or farther south.”
“I know it,” said the third man. “It's a vile hole; it's on the eastern shore of the Adriatic. I was wrecked there once in an Austrian Lloyd's steamer, and caught a tertian fever before I could get away. There was a fellow there, a vice-consul they called him. He was dressed in sheepskins, and, I believe, lived by wrecking. He stole my watch, and would have carried away my portmanteau, but I was waiting for him with my revolver, and winged him.”
“Did nothing come of it?” asked another.
“They pensioned him, I think. I 'm not sure; but I think they gave him twenty pounds a year. I know old Kepsley stopped eight pounds out of my salary for a wooden leg for the rascal. There's the whistle; take care, sir, you'll come to grief if you hang on.”
Cutbill attended to the admonition, and bidding the travellers good-bye, returned slowly to the Bramleighs' lodgings, pondering over all he had heard, and canvassing with himself how much of his unpleasant tidings he would venture to relate.
“Where 's your map?” said he, entering. “I suspect I can make out the place now. Show me the Adriatic. Zara—Lissa—what a number of islands! Here you are; here's Bocca di Cattaro—next door to the Turks, by Jove.”
“My dear Gusty, don't think of this, I beseech you,” said Nelly, whispering. “It is enough to see where it is, to know it must be utter barbarism.”
“I won't say it looks inviting,” said Cutbill, as he bent over the map, “and the messenger had n't much to say in its praise, either.”