The news that there was an automobile on the island must have flashed around by magic telegraph, for people—swarms of people, more than you would have thought could live on the whole of Capri—came running from everywhere to see us start. I should have been awfully amused if it hadn't been for one thing. Up there at the end of the quay, where we must pass, were half a dozen hotel omnibuses and a long rank of smart cabs, like victorias, with very pretty little horses, whose faces looked incredibly short—perhaps on account of their huge blinders. They had feathers on their heads, and their harness was ornamented with all kinds of strange devices in silver or brass. Sweet little pets they were, that you felt as if you might ask into your house to sit on the hearthrug; and when they saw Balzac they all began to snort and shiver and act as if they were going to faint. Their drivers—in hard, white hats something like our policemen's helmets—flew to the poor beasties' heads; and some laughed, and some looked anxious, some angry.
Evidently the little horses had lived an innocent, peaceful life for years on Capri, and had never heard of railways or steam rollers, much less automobiles. I was so sorry for them, and wished I hadn't been so headstrong, but had been guided by Brown when he advised me to leave Balzac at Naples. However, we couldn't abandon the car on the quay, so we got in and Brown started the motor. Oh, my goodness' every horse went into hysterics! Their drivers held them, and said things soothing or the reverse, according to their bringing-up, but the little things kicked
