"Oh, I see," said the Unwiseman. "And when the Doggies get the complaints they attend to 'em, eh?"
"Yes," said Mollie.
"And who are the Doggies?" asked the Unwiseman. "They don't have dogs instead of pleece over here, do they? I get so mixed up with these Johns, and Bobbies, and Doggies I hardly know where I'm at."
"I don't exactly understand why," said Mollie, "but the people in Venice are ruled by Doggies."
"They're a queer lot from Buckingham Palace, London, down to this old tow-path," said the Unwiseman, "and if I ever get home alive there's no more abroad for your Uncle Me."
On the following day, Mollie's parents having seen all of Venice that their limited time permitted, prepared to start for Genoa, whence the steamer back to New York was to sail. Everything was ready, but the Unwiseman was nowhere to be found. The hotel was searched from top to bottom and not a sign of him. Giuseppe Zocco denied all knowledge of him, and the carpet-bag gave no evidence that he had been in it the night before as was his custom. Train-time was approaching and Mollie was distracted. Even Whistlebinkie whistled under his breath for fear that something had happened to the old gentleman.
"I hope he hasn't fallen overboard!" moaned Mollie, gazing anxiously into the watery depths of the canal.
"Here he comes!" cried Whistlebinkie, jubilantly, and sure enough down the canal seated on a small raft and paddling his way cautiously along with his hands came the Unwiseman, singing the popular Italian ballad "Margherita" at the top of his lungs.
"Gander ahoy!" he cried, as he neared the hotel steps. "Sheer off there, Captain, and let me into Port."