“Well, I never heard any one take offense at being taken for an American.”
“True. I have been in America, and I understand why it is that you Americans are proud of your country. However, if I am not an American, my young friend here, Bernard Brooks, is an American boy.”
“I am glad to meet a fellow countryman, Mr. Sanderson,” remarked Bernard, smiling.
“Well, well, it does seem real good to meet an American boy,” said Mr. Sanderson, his face lighting up. “Shake, Bernard, my boy!” and he extended a muscular hand, which Bernard shook cordially.
“Are you staying at this hotel, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Walter Cunningham.
“Don’t call it a hotel! It doesn’t deserve the name. Call it a tavern. It’s a regular one horse place.”
“Then I am glad we are only going to stop one night.”
“I have been here a day and a half, and it’s the longest day and a half I ever passed.”
“Why did you stay if you didn’t like it?”
“I’ll tell you why. I came here in a small vettura, and I had a quarrel with the vetturino, who tried to cheat. So I sent him off, and was glad to get rid of him, for a man with a more villainous countenance I never saw. I haven’t been able to get another carriage, so here I am. How did you come?”