“Now let this be a lesson to you, my son,” I sagely observed, as we hurried along, “always to make yourself pleasant and polite to old ladies. But for Mrs. Wingham, you might have been dragging a cannon-ball at your ankle for years.”
Teddy shuddered, and said:
“What a blessing I resembled her nephew!”
“And mine!” I added. “Don’t forget me.”
CHAPTER XXII
OUR FLIGHT TO VENICE—THENCE TO ATHENS—WE ALL MEET ON THE ACROPOLIS—REAPPEARANCE OF MR. BAILEY THOMPSON!—AGAIN WE MANAGE TO PUT HIM OFF THE SCENT
Of our flight down the Corniche and across the Italian frontier I do not propose to say much. Suffice it that, at a quiet spot before we reached Mentone, I found the opportunity to strip off my disguise and, for precaution’s sake, bury both wig and whiskers at the root of an olive-tree; where no doubt they still remain, if any one cares to go and look for them. In well under the hour, so fast we travelled, we were over the Italian border, just beyond Mentone, and, after the usual difficulties with the dogana about our bicycles, were before very long safely seated in the Ventimiglia train for Turin. To avoid being further troubled with the machines, we presented them to a couple of porters, and, while waiting for the train, passed a highly amusing half-hour watching them trying to learn to ride.
Our point was Venice, and, travelling all night, on the afternoon of the next day (Sunday, January 19th) Teddy and I were glad to find ourselves in a gondola, flapping along to the “Grand Hotel,” where we were all to meet.
But at the “Grand” there was a telegram awaiting me: “Come Athens—Brentin.” It had been sent from Messina the previous afternoon, and, disagreeable though it was, there was nothing for it but to obey.
We went off at once to Cook’s offices in the Piazza to inquire about a steamer; but, being Sunday, of course found them closed. Very awkward! Surely, nowadays, when they open the museums, Mr. Cook might stretch a point and do the same with his offices?