“Nickerson is a part of the name my mother gave me, and which it was her wish I should be known by. I have told you that before.”
I knew that it would be useless to question him further; and I had an instinctive feeling that he had good reasons for his reserve, though I couldn’t understand it. So I dropped the matter, though I still felt that his association with one with such a name could bear no good fruit.
That morning we resumed our journey on the train, and were speeding down a broad beautiful river, with mountains here and there on the opposite side, and with lovely villages and gardens with flowers, orange trees, palms, and fruit trees. Jot, who had been thoughtful and, as I thought, gloomy, threw off his depressing mood and entered heartily into the enjoyment of these scenes.
In the afternoon we reached the sea, and passed the night at a busy throbbing metropolitan city. On the streets were people and uniforms of all nations—French, British, American, Algerines, Turkos, Canadians, East Indians and others that I can not name.
We took a walk along the water side, and then up, up, up, to the top of a high cliff on the top of which was a church, old, quaint and beautiful. There we had a magnificent view. The sky so blue, the city with its green trees and red tiled roofs seen through the blue haze, the white limestone and the distant mountains, formed a picture never to be forgotten.
The next day we were on the train again, with standing room only, the crowd was so great and the service so poor. But this inconvenience was forgotten in the constant panorama. Beaches of white sand and pebbles, flowers, orange, palm and peach trees. To me it was like a scene of enchantment, for beautiful nature had been supplemented by the arts of the landscape gardener. I had never seen anything like it before.
We reached the city of our destination that afternoon, and went to the Hotel Beau Rivage, which had been recommended to Jot by some French friends. The accommodations were fine,—two rooms and a bath! It was nice to get a hot bath once more, and wash away the stains of travel. There was not as many people in the hotel as usual, we were told, on account of the war.
It was the most beautiful sea resort of France. There was a fine beach, not of sand but of pebbles, beautiful drives, and a broad cement walk all bordered with palms, parks full of flowers of every kind, and the broad green, ever changing sea. And then the swim! I had been accustomed to swimming in fresh water, and the salt sea was so much more buoyant that I could almost seem to fly, when I took my favorite overhand swinging strokes through the clear salt water. It was grand! Swimming was my best hold as an athlete and I enjoyed it. Muddy also enjoyed the water.
On our return, I took a nap, while Jot went to make some calls on people to whom he had letters of introduction. I had a long dreamless sleep, and was not awakened until Jot shook me by the shoulder, crying out: “Do you want to sleep forever, Dave? I have got some stunning news for you. Wake up!”
I answered with a sleepy yawn, saying: “Stun away, Jot!”