“Barcelona, then. I suppose it is some one-horse seaport, where we are expected to go into ecstasies over tumble-down old buildings, or pretend that we like to look at a lot of musty pictures. I have had enough of this sort of thing, as I said before. I should like to have a right down good time, such as we had in New York when we went round among the theatres and the beer-shops. That was fun for me. I’m no book-worm, and I don’t pretend to be. I won’t make believe that I enjoy looking at ruins and pictures when it is a bore to me. I will not be a hypocrite, whatever else I am.”
Bill Stout evidently believed that he had some virtue left; and, as he delivered himself of his sentiments, he looked like a much abused and wronged young man.
“Here we are; and in six or eight hours we shall be in Barcelona,” continued Ben Pardee.
“And it is no such one-horse place as you seem to think it is,” added Lon Gibbs. “It is a large city; in fact, the second in size in Spain, and with about the same population as Boston. It is a great commercial place.”
“You have learned the geography by heart,” sneered Bill Stout, who had a hearty contempt for those who knew any thing contained in the books, or at least for those who made any display of their knowledge.
“I like, when I am going to any place, to know something about it,” pleaded Lon, in excuse for his wisdom in regard to Barcelona.
“Are there any beer-shops there, Lon?” asked Bill.
“Then your education has been neglected.”
“Spain is not a beer-drinking country; and I should say you would find no beer-shops there,” continued Lon. “Spain is a wine country; and I have no doubt you will find plenty of wine-shops in Barcelona, and in the other cities of the country.”