CHAPTER XVII.
THROUGH THE HEART OF SPAIN.
Bill Stout concluded that he was not a success as a tourist in Spain; but he was confident that he should succeed better in England. He resolved to be a good boy till the excursionists arrived in Lisbon, and not make any attempt to escape; for it was not likely that he could accomplish his purpose. Besides, he had no taste for any more travelling in Spain. In fact, he had a dread of being cast upon his own resources in the interior, where he could not speak the language.
“Do you know what country you are in?” asked Dr. Winstock, who sat opposite his pupils, as he had come to call them.
“I reckon you’d know if you had seen it as I have,” interposed Bill Stout, who had a seat next to Murray, with a broad grin at the absurdity of the question. “It is Spain,—the meanest country on the face of the earth.”
“So you think, Stout; but you have had a rather hard experience of it,” replied the doctor. “We have had a very good time since we left Barcelona.”
“I suppose you know the lingo; and that makes all the difference in the world,” added Bill.
“When I spoke of country, I referred to a province,” continued Dr. Winstock.