One farmer had fowl, another had fruit and still another had a load of vegetables, so the tourists bought all the fruit they wanted, and the peasants went their way, rejoicing at the good luck the quake had brought them in the form of rich Americans who paid so well for filling the ditch, and then selling them fruit.
As soon as the tourists reached a quiet spot beside the road, they halted the cars and enjoyed the fruit, for that was all the breakfast they would have until they reached Naples.
Late in the afternoon they stopped at a good hotel and sighed in relief to think they could have a good, long, night’s rest. The daily papers were filled with the account of the damage done in Rome by the recent earthquake, but the list of those dead or lost was not yet complete, as so many were buried under the débris of fallen buildings.
Suddenly Mr. Alexander threw back his head and roared.
“What’s the matter, Pa?” asked Dodo, frowning at his shout.
“Ho, I just read how we’re all dead. Did you know we were lost in the ’quake last night?”
They all stared at him. Mr. Fabian ran over to see the article for himself. Then he read it aloud: “Among those stopping at the Hotel —— in Rome, which collapsed at the third severe shock, were a party of American tourists who were with Mr. Fabian, the well-known authority on Antiques. Mrs. Fabian and daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Alexander and daughter, and two young misses, were members in this party. A few other guests of the hotel are also unaccounted for.”
“If that isn’t the strangest thing,” exclaimed Mr. Fabian, “to sit here and read our own death-notice. Now I’ll have to wire Ashby that we’re all right, and we’ll have to cable to the States that this report is false.”
The girls wanted to read the notice, too, and Nancy said they ought to keep the notice as a joke on journalism in Italy.
“No joke about it, say I. Now I have to wear crêpe fer myself, because everyone out West will celebrate when they believe me done for,” said Mr. Alexander.