“I don’t understand it,” continued the captain.
“I do,” answered the surgeon, vigorously rubbing one of his legs.
“What is it?” asked Sheridan, suspecting that they all had some strange disease.
“Cosas de España,” laughed the doctor.
“But that is Spanish; and I don’t understand the lingo.”
“A cosa de España is a ‘thing of Spain;’ fleas are things of Spain; and that is what is the matter with you and me. The lining of this carriage has been repaired by covering it in part with cloth with a long nap, which is alive with fleas.”
“The wicked flea!” exclaimed Murray.
“He goeth about in Spain, seeking whom he may devour,” added the doctor.
When they reached the hotel, supper was ready; but they did not want any just then, for no one feels hungry while a myriad of fleas are picking his bones. Garments were taken off, and brushed on the inside; the skin was washed with cologne-water; and the party were happy till they took in a new supply.
At about eleven at night, the ship’s company took the train south, and at quarter past eight the next morning were at El Escorial.