“No, sir; but he sometimes disappoints travelers. How do you like it? Does he compare with your California Geysers?”
“Well, Zöega, he throws up more hot water, to be sure, because our Geysers don’t erupt at all; but here is the grand difference. We Californians are a moral people; we don’t live so near to (I pointed down below) as you do in Iceland.”
“I don’t understand you, sir,” said Zöega, with a puzzled expression.
I called him over and whispered in his ear, “Zöega, I hope you’re a good man. Do you say your prayers regularly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you are all right. Let us be going. I don’t like this neighborhood.”
“Whenever you wish, sir. The horses are all ready.”
And Zöega proceeded to strike the tent and pack the animals, muttering to himself and shaking his head gravely, as if he thought the Californians were a very peculiar race of men, to say the least of them.
Another cup of tea and a few biscuits served to brace us up for the journey, and we mounted our horses and turned their heads homeward. Brusa was so delighted at the idea of being en route once more that he signalized our departure by giving chase to a flock of sheep, which he dispersed in a most miraculous manner, and then, of course, received the customary punishment.