“You are the picture, my dear sir,” he said, “of serene enjoyment slightly tinged with sensuality. But how long, may I ask, have you taken to breakfasting on spiders?”—pointing, as he took a chair opposite the Major, at an immense red-spotted one that had dropt from the ceiling on the morsel my grandfather was in the act of conveying to his mouth.
The Major tenderly removed the insect by a leg.
“’Tis the worst of these al-fresco meals, Frank,” said he. “Yesterday I cut a green lizard in two that had got on my plate, mistaking him for a bit of salad—being, as usual, more intent on my book than my food—and had very near swallowed the tail-half of the unfortunate animal.”
“There are worse things than lizards in the world,” quoth Garry. “Ants, I should say, were certainly less wholesome”—and he directed the Major’s attention to a long black line of those interesting creatures issuing from a hole in the pavement, passing in an unbroken series up my ancestor’s left leg, the foot of which rested on the ground, then traversing the cloth, and terminating at the loaf, the object of their expedition.
“Bless me,” said the Major, as he rose and shook his breeches gently free from the marauders, “I must be more careful, or I shall chance to do myself a mischief. But they’re worse at night. I’ve been obliged to leave off reading here in the evenings, for it went to my heart to see the moths scorching their pretty gauzy wings in the candle till the wicks were half-choked with them.”
“Do you know, Major,” said Owen, gravely, “that either this insect diet, or the sedentary life you lead, is making you quite fat, and utterly destroying the symmetry of your figure? In another week there will be one unbroken line of rotundity from your chin to your knees.”
My grandfather glanced downward at his waistcoat. “No, my boy, no,” said he; “if there had been any difference, I should have known it by my clothes. I don’t think I’ve gained a pound this twelvemonth.”
“More than a stone,” quoth Garry. “We all remarked it on parade to-day—and remarked it with sorrow. Now, look you, a sea voyage is the very thing to restore your true proportions, and I propose that we shall take a short one together.”
“A sea voyage!” quoth my grandfather; “the boy is mad! Not if all the wonders seen by Sinbad the Sailor lay within a day’s sail. Did I not suffer enough coming here from England? I don’t think,” said my grandfather with considerable pathos, “that my digestion has ever been quite right to this day.”
“‘Sick of a calm,’ eh?—Like your friend Mistress Tearsheet,” said the youngster. “But I’ve settled it all, and count on you. Look here,” he continued, drawing from his pocket a large printed bill, and unfolding it before my ancestor. At the top appeared in large capitals the words, “Plaza de Toros;” and underneath was a woodcut representing a bull, gazing, with his tail in the air, and an approving smile on his countenance, on the matadore about to transfix him. Then followed a glowing account in Spanish of the delights of a great bull-fight shortly to take place at Cadiz, setting forth the ferocity of the bulls, the number of horses that might be expected to die in the arena, and the fame of the picadores and espadas who were then and there to exhibit.