“But zis is ze great Christo—”
“I don’t care who it is! It’s the worst writing I ever saw. Now you musn’t think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!—and if you haven’t, drive on!”
We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome us. He said:
“Ah, genteelmen, you come wis me! I show you beautiful, O, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo!—splendid, grand, magnificent!”
He brought us before the beautiful bust—for it was beautiful—and sprang back and struck an attitude:
“Ah, look, genteelmen!—beautiful, grand,—bust Christopher Colombo!—beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal!”
The doctor put up his eye-glass—procured for such occasions:
“Ah—what did you say this gentleman’s name was?”
“Christopher Colombo!—ze great Christopher Colombo!”
“Christopher Colombo—the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what did he do?”
“Discover America!—discover America, Oh, ze devil!”
“Discover America. No—that statement will hardly wash. We are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christopher Colombo—pleasant name—is—is he dead?”
“Oh, corpo di Baccho!—three hundred year!”
“What did he die of?”
“I do not know!—I can not tell.”
“Small-pox, think?”
“I do not know, genteelmen!—I do not know what he die of!”
“Measles, likely?”
“May be—may be—I do not know—I think he die of somethings.”
“Parents living?”
