Having brought Bill Stout safely into port, we feel obliged to bestow some attention upon the other wanderers from the fold of discipline and good instruction. At the Fonda del Cid, where our brace of tourists went after taking such unceremonious leave of Bill Stout, was a party of English people who insisted upon having their breakfast at an hour that would permit them to use the forenoon in seeing the sights of Valencia; and thus it happened that this meal was ready for the fugitives at eight o’clock.
“What day is this, Lingall?” asked Raimundo, as they came into the main hall of the hotel after breakfast.
“Wednesday,” replied Bark.
“I thought so. Look at this bill,” added the second master, pointing to a small poster, with the picture of a steamer at the head of it.
“I see it, but I can’t read it.”
“This steamer starts from Grao at ten this forenoon, for Oran. It is only half-past eight now.”
“Starts from Grao? where is that?” asked Bark.
“Grao is the port of Valencia: it is not many miles from here.”
“And where is the other place? I never heard of it.”
“Oran is in Algeria. It cannot be more than three hundred miles from Valencia.”