“Infernal tyranny,” I murmured.
“Isn’t it? However, we got to Genoa at last, only to find that not a single one of our trunks had come with us!”
“Confiscated?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Parkins, “the head baggage man (he wears a uniform, you know, in Italy just like a soldier) said it was because we’d forgotten to check them in Vienna. However there we were waiting for twenty-four hours with nothing but our valises.”
“Right at the station?” I asked.
“No, at a hotel. We got the trunks later. They telegraphed to Vienna for them and managed to get them through somehow,—in a baggage car, I believe.”
“And after that, I suppose, you had no more trouble.”
“Trouble,” said Parkins, “I should say we had. Couldn’t get a steamer! They said there was none sailing out of Genoa for New York for three days! All cancelled, I guess, or else rigged up as cruisers.”
“What on earth did you do?”
“Stuck it out as best we could: stayed right there in the hotel. Poor old Jones was pretty well collapsed! Couldn’t do anything but sleep and eat, and sit on the piazza of the hotel.”