We will not drag the reader through every step of the rough and adventurous journey which was accomplished by our travellers in the succeeding week, during which they became so familiar with tigers, that Muggins thought no more of their roaring than he did of the mewing of cats, while Larry actually got the length of kicking the “sarpints” out of his way, although he did express his conviction, now and then, that the “counthry wos mightily in want of a visit from Saint Patrick.” They travelled steadily and surely under the guidance of the faithful Bunco, through tangled brake, and wild morass, and dense forest, and many a mile of sandy plain, until at length they reached the small town and port of Tacames, into which they entered one sultry afternoon, footsore and weary, with their clothes torn almost to tatters, and without a single coin—of any realm whatever—in their pockets.
“Well, here we are at last,” said Will Osten, with a sigh.
“True for ye,” responded Larry.
“That’s so,” said Muggins.
“It’s all well as ends well, which wos Billy Cowper’s opinion,” observed Old Peter.
Bunco made no remark, but he gave a quiet grunt, which might have meant anything—or nothing—as they entered the town.