We bought two, one of which the younger bachelor immediately smoked, having first carefully extracted the straws. The other was given to the waiter, and it is safe to predict that neither of us will ever be seen with one of those terrible cigars again. About 10 p.m. No. 1 began to show signs of a violent bilious attack, which grew worse as the night came on. This was the commencement of an ailment which afterwards turned out to be “gastric fever.” There was little sleep that night for either of the bachelors, as No. 2 sat up by his friend during a great part of the night. The next morning, however, though still unwell, No. 1 insisted on going to church. On returning hotel-ward the younger felt alarmingly ill, and could not walk further without help.
When we got to the hotel, No. 2 determined to send for a doctor, and, looking into his Baedeker, chose one of those recommended. Our girls must not think it was entirely the horrible cigar that made No. 1 so ill. They must remember he was described as having a shocking digestion, which had been “upset” by the continual travelling and the change of food; also, the sudden change from the bracing mountain air to the comparatively enervating climate of Milan, no doubt accelerated the illness. The doctor came about four hours after he was sent for, and, after asking innumerable questions as to the occupation, rule of life, etc., of the bachelor, seemingly unnecessary—not to say impertinent—prescribed an alarming amount of medicine. We shall remember that doctor, with his important manner and soft, deep voice. He was a smart, healthy-looking man, with an imposing moustache and short black hair. We shall also remember the answer he gave to the older bachelor, who had inquired how long it would be before his friend would be well enough to resume his travels—“Maybe in two or three weeks,” being the encouraging reply.
The younger bachelor is here reminded of the interesting view of chimney-pots and house-roof visible from his bedroom window, which it was his fate to watch incessantly for two whole days, miserably ill, with one longing in life, viz., to quench his burning thirst with “a lemon squash.”
As it seemed the less expensive method, No. 2 shopped for the lemons, bringing in a dozen at a time, and squeezing them with his fingers into a water-bottle glass. The sugar was purloined from the salle-à-manger (as we wish this narrative of ours to be a strictly truthful one, we resolutely admit our guilt, but hope the Italian Government will not be too hard on us), for we preferred the charge of one halfpenny per “squash,” instead of one franc, the probable price of one bought at the hotel. If any one of our readers has had a brother to supply incessantly with “lemon squash” for two days and one night, without the use of a proper lemon-squeezer, she will appreciate the sad intelligence that No. 2’s finger joints are now less supple and powerful than before this Italian tour.
La femme de chambre was, as most young women are to forlorn and helpless bachelors, tender and kind. In fact, at the end of two days she quietly suggested that a lemon squash was the worst drink for the poor patient, and actually the dear thing made for him some oatmeal, bringing into the room a sieve, a basin, some warm water, and a screw of paper containing oatmeal. Then (à la Useful Hints in the G. O. P.) the recipe was as follows:—A little oatmeal in the strainer, hold over the empty basin, and with the warm water (by this time very lukewarm), percolate through the sieve, and behold a dish of Scotch oatmeal!
That preparation did not seem to improve the condition of the poor patient.
“Oh, that we had some English lady with us,” cried No. 2.
“Never no more,” groaned No. 1, with his face to the wall, though whether this depressing remark had a reference to the oatmeal, the gentler sex, or the “holiday” (save the mark!), No. 2 has not yet been able to determine.
(To be continued.)