When we descended to breakfast, the young man upon whose fragmentary accomplishment the Hotel Central founded its claim to put "English Spoken" on its cards hastened to greet us with the welcome news: "The sheep 'as arrive."
Going down to the harbour, we found ocular evidence that the report was true. The Isla de Menorca had arrived and would sail for Palma at 7 o'clock that evening. Our friend of the shipping office was silent and despondent. The weather had disappointed him by declining to act up to his gloomy anticipations.
Going, under his escort, to look over the ship, we found her a great, broad, tubby boat. At small tables placed on trestles on deck the crew were seated at breakfast, tall bottles of wine before them.
The first saloon accommodation was gay in red plush. That was its only recommendation, for it was woefully cramped in point of space, and the cabins were placed directly over the screw. The second saloon, which was amidships, occupied far more room. The steward suggested the probability of my having the large and cheerful ladies' cabin to myself. On the previous night's journey from Barcelona there had been only one lady passenger. Greatly daring, we hinted that in the event of no other señora arriving, we three might share it.
When we had parted from our escort, leaving him, we felt assured, inwardly deploring the comparative calm, and ghoulishly hoping for a sudden change of weather, the Man went off to finish his much interrupted sketch; while the Boy and I walked up to the market-square, from which—Minorca having no railways—a constant succession of more or less ramshackle vehicles acting as diligences left for the towns and villages round about.
Accosting the driver of the nearest, we asked its destination.
"Villa Carlos."
"And the charge?"
"Fifteen centimos each."
"When will the carriage start?"