BILL STOUT AS A TOURIST.
Bill Stout indulged in some very severe reflections upon the conduct of his fellow-conspirator when he found that he was alone in the compartment where he had spent the night. The porter who woke him told him very respectfully (he was a first-class passenger), in good Spanish for a man in his position, that the train was to be run out of the station. Bill couldn’t understand him, but he left the car.
“Where are the fellows that came with me?” he asked, turning to the porter; but the man shook his head, and smiled as blandly as though the runaway had given him a peseta.
Bill was not much troubled with bashfulness; and he walked about the station, accosting a dozen persons whom he met; but not one of them seemed to know a word of English.
“No hablo Ingles,” was the uniform reply of all. One spoke to him in French; but, though Bill had studied this language, he had not gone far enough to be able to speak even a few words of it. He went into the street, and a crowd of carriage-drivers saluted him.
“Hotel,” said he, satisfied by this time that it was of no use to talk English to anybody in Spain.
As this word is known to all languages, he got on so far very well.
“Hotel Villa de Madrid!” shouted one of the drivers.
Though Bill’s knowledge of geography was very limited, he had heard of Madrid, and he identified this word in the speech of the man. He bowed to him to indicate that he was ready to go to the hotel he named. He was invited to take a seat in a tartana, a two-wheeled vehicle not much easier than a tip-cart, and driven to the hotel. Bill did not look like a very distinguished guest, for he wore the garb of a common sailor when he took off his overcoat. He had not even put on his best rig, as he did not go ashore in regular form. He spoke to the porter who received him at the door, in English, thinking it was quite proper for those about a hotel to speak all languages. But this man seemed to be no better linguist than the rest of the Spaniards; and he made no reply.