An hour later he was on his way to Paris.
CHAPTER XXVI.
MR. TARBOX ON THE TRAIL.
"So this is the Hotel de Bugs," said Jonathan Tarbox, as, carpet-bag in hand, he approached, with long strides, the well-known Hotel des Bergues in Geneva. "It looks like a nice sort of a hotel. I wonder if Frank and that rascally humbug are stoppin' here. I'd give twenty-five cents to see that boy's face. Strange what a fancy I've took to him. He's a reg'lar gentleman; as quick and sharp as a steel-trap."
Mr. Tarbox had walked from the railway station. He was naturally economical, and, having all his life been accustomed to walk, thought it a waste and extravagance to take a carriage. He had inquired his way by simply pronouncing the name of the hotel as above. The similarity in sound was sufficient to insure a correction.
He entered the hotel and found the landlord.
"I say, captain, I want to put up here to-night."
"Will monsieur have a room?" asked the host, politely.
"If you mean me, that's what I want; but I ain't a monseer at all. I'm a Yankee."