“Mr. Teebbeets, de vine here ish pat mit de stomach. Ve vell vait till ve get to de next blace.”
Tibbitts was furious, for he was arid.
“Look here, my friend,” he said, “I am not carrying your stomach around with me. The one I am endangering I have had a proprietary interest in for twenty-six years, and if I don’t know its capacity, its powers of endurance, and all that, I don’t know who does. You take care of your stomach and let mine alone. Mademoiselle, apportez moi ze—that is—d—- n it—botteille—bottle—du vin—that is, fetch back that bottle and be mighty quick about it.”
And a minute later he was pouring it out, and as he swallowed it, he remarked to himself, “Injure the stomach, indeed! A man who has swallowed enough sod-corn whisky in Oshkosh to float the Great Eastern, to be afraid of this thin drink. If it were aquafortis now—”
The courier was mortally offended, and sulked all the afternoon. If Tibbitts could order a bottle of wine without his permission, he might possibly buy a Swiss carving in Chamonix when we arrived there, without consulting him, and then where would be the commission?
After the rest and the wine, and the bad bread and the tolerably bad cheese, we proceeded on our journey. From that time on it was a succession of wonderful views, a panorama sometimes beautiful, sometimes awesome, sometimes soothing, and sometimes frightful. But no matter which it was, it was never insipid. There was a positive character to each view, something that you must observe, whether or no, and something that seen left an impression that many years will not efface.
The Pass Tête Noir is an experience that will last a life time.
A SATISFACTORY FALL.
We made a sharp turn in the road at one point, and a view burst upon us that was worth a journey across the Atlantic to see. We were hanging over a chasm full six thousand feet deep—that is, to the first impediment to a full and satisfactory fall. Should you go down that six thousand feet you would