"Oh, that's all right," returned the collector impetuously. "We'll take a turn down the road, and plan it all out. I can think better when I'm walking—sort of peripatetic, you see. Ha, ha!—and it'll look queer if you don't go down to see the other temple. Come on."
Mr. Wrenmarsh made his way toward the road, trampling impetuously over the wild thyme and the acanthus, while Taberman followed in a mixture of amused amazement and indignation, but with a full determination to expostulate. He found, however, that he was not allowed any opportunity for remonstrance. Every sentence he began was choked off with some fresh exclamation of gratitude from the collector, or by some burst of delight that out of the skies, as it were, he had fallen to be the savior of the perplexed archæologist. By the time they had walked around the third temple, which stands at some distance from the other two, Taberman had given up protesting. He merely listened to his companion's bewildering flow of talk, and felt as if he were being drawn into a whirlpool. He was helped by his own secret delight at the thought of having a share in a real adventure, and perhaps pushed on by a boyish shame at the idea of seeming to draw back and to fail another in an extremity. He had not much chance to speak,—but he soon found that what he did say was in the line of his having accepted the position into which Mr. Wrenmarsh had been endeavoring to force him.
As they returned from the third temple they found the custode beside the fountain which stood across the road from the inn. He was trying to teach his horse to shake hands.
"Ah, Michu," the Italian said as they came up to him; "I hope you were pleased with the temples."
"Much," Taberman assured him. "They are magnificent."
Seeing his companion fee the man, he in turn slipped a coin into the brown hand. His conscience gave him a little twinge at the thought of plotting to outwit this frank, big creature; but he reflected instantly that the matter was entirely impersonal, and it was not in a tariff-hating youth like Jerry to have any scruples over tricking the Italian government in a matter of this sort.
"How long would it take you to sail down here from Naples?" asked Wrenmarsh, as they took the road toward the station.
Tab considered.
"Five or six hours with a good breeze," was his conclusion.