"Oh, yes," said S., "a great abundance of it."
"Is it easy to be had?"
"Oh, yes—easy as water. All first and second-class hotels have it."
"What do you pay for it?"
"It depends on the style of the hotel—from fifteen to twenty-five francs a bottle."
"Oh, fortunate country! Why, it's worth 100 francs right here on the ground."
"No!"
"Yes!"
"Do you mean that we are drinking a bogus Veuve Cliquot over there?"
"Yes—and there was never a bottle of the genuine in America since Columbus's time. That wine all comes from a little bit of a patch of ground which isn't big enough to raise many bottles; and all of it that is produced goes every year to one person—the Emperor of Russia. He takes the whole crop in advance, be it big or little."
January 4, 1896. Christmas in Melbourne, New Year's Day in Adelaide, and saw most of the friends again in both places. . . . Lying here at anchor all day—Albany (King George's Sound), Western Australia. It is a perfectly land-locked harbor, or roadstead—spacious to look at, but not deep water. Desolate-looking rocks and scarred hills. Plenty of ships arriving now, rushing to the new gold-fields. The papers are full of wonderful tales of the sort always to be heard in connection with new gold diggings. A sample: a youth staked out a claim and tried to sell half for £5; no takers; he stuck to it fourteen days, starving, then struck it rich and sold out for £10,000. . . . About sunset, strong breeze blowing, got up the anchor. We were in a small deep puddle, with a narrow channel leading out of it, minutely buoyed, to the sea.
