The appalling truth at last forced itself upon them that Civita Castellana could not furnish them either with a new wheel or a blacksmith who could repair the broken one. Whether the entire mechanical force of the town had gone off to the wars or not they did not stop to inquire. They believed that the citizens had combined to disappoint them, in hopes that their detention might bring in a little ready money and start it in circulation around the community.

It was at last seen that the only way to do the was to send Pietro back to Rome. To delay any longer would be only a waste of time.

Slowly and sadly they took up their quarters at the hotel. d.i.c.k decided to go back so as to hasten Pietro, who might otherwise loiter on the way. So the dilapidated carriage had to set out on its journey backward.

Forced to endure the horrors of detention in one of the dullest of Italian towns, their situation was deplorable. Mr. Figgs was least unhappy, for he took to his bed and slept through the entire period, with the exception of certain little intervals which he devoted to meals. The Doctor sat quietly by an upper window playing the devil's tattoo on the ledge with inexhaustible patience.

The Senator strolled through the town. He found much to interest him.

His busy brain was filled with schemes for the improvement of the town.

How town lots could be made valuable; how strangers could be attracted; how manufactures could be promoted; how hotels started; how shops supported; how trade increased; how the whole surrounding population enriched, especially by the factories.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Senator's Escort.]

"Why, among these here hills," said he, confidentially, to b.u.t.tons --"among these very hills there is water-power and excellent location for, say--Silk-weaving mills, Fulling ditto, Grist ditto, Carding ditto, Sawing ditto, Plaster-crushing ditto, Planing ditto.

--Now I would locate a cotton-mill over there."

"Where would you get your cotton?" mumbled b.u.t.tons.

"Where?" repeated the Senator. "Grow it on the Campagna, of course."

b.u.t.tons pa.s.sed the time in a fever of impatience.

For far ahead the Spaniards were flying further and further away, no doubt wondering at every stage why he did not join them.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

TRIUMPHANT PROGRESS OF d.i.c.k.--GENDARMES FOILED.--THE DODGE CLUB IS ATTACKED BY BRIGANDS, AND EVERY MAN OF IT COVERS HIMSELF WITH GLORY.--SCREAM OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE!

It was late on the evening of the following day before d.i.c.k made his appearance with Pietro, Another vettura had been obtained, and with cracks of a long whip that resounded through the whole town, summoning the citizens to the streets; with thunder of wheels over the pavements; with prancing and snorting of horses; Pietro drove up to the hotel. Most conspicuous in the turn-out was d.i.c.k, who was seated in the coupe, waving his hat triumphantly in the air.

The appearance of the carriage was the signal for three hearty cheers, which burst involuntarily from the three Americans on the courtyard, rousing Mr. Figgs from sleep and the inn-keeper from his usual lethargy. One look at the horses was enough to show that there was no chance of proceeding further that day. The poor beasts were covered with foam, and trembled excessively. However, they all felt infinite relief at the prospect of getting away, even though they would have to wait till the following morning.

d.i.c.k was dragged to the dining-room by his eager friends and fiercely interrogated. He had not much to tell.

The journey to Rome had been made without any difficulty, the carriage having tumbled forward on its front axle not more than one hundred and fifty-seven times. True, when it reached Rome it was a perfect wreck, the framework being completely wrenched to pieces; and the proprietor was bitterly enraged with Pietro for not leaving the carriage at Civita Castellana, and returning on horseback for a wheel; but d.i.c.k interceded for the poor devil of a driver, and the proprietor kindly consented to deduct the value of the coach from his wages piecemeal.

Their journey back was quick but uninteresting. d.i.c.k acknowledged that he had a faint idea of staying in Rome, but saw a friend who advised him not to. He had taken the reins and driven for a great part of the way, while Pietro had gone inside and slumbered the sleep of the just.

As it was a lonely country, with few inhabitants, he had beguiled the tedious hours of the journey by blowing patriotic airs on an enormous trombone, purchased by him from a miscellaneous dealer in Rome. The result had been in the highest degree pleasing to himself, though perhaps a little surprising to others. No one, however, interfered with him except a party of gendarmes who attempted to stop him. They thought that he was a Garibaldino trying to rouse the country. The trombone might have been the cause of that suspicion.

Fortunately the gendarmes, though armed to the teeth, were not mounted, and so it was that, when they attempted to arrest d.i.c.k, that young man lashed his horses to fury, and, loosening the reins at the same moment, burst through the line, and before they knew what he was about he was away.

They fired a volley. The echoes died away, mingled with gendarmerian curses. The only harm done was a hole made by a bullet through the coach. The only apparent effect was the waking of Pietro. That worthy, suddenly roused from slumber, jumped up to hear the last sounds of the rifles, to see the hole made by the bullet, the fading forms of the frantic officials, and the nimble figure of the gallant driver, who stood upright upon the seat waving his hat over his head, while the horses dashed on at a furious gallop.

[Ill.u.s.tration: d.i.c.k In His Glory.]

This was all. Nothing more occurred, for Pietro drove the remainder of the way, and d.i.c.k's trombone was tabooed.

On the following morning the welcome departure was made. To their inexpressible joy they found that the coach was this time a strong one, and no ordinary event of travel could delay them. They had lost two days, however, and that was no trifle. They now entered upon the second stage, and pa.s.sed on without difficulty.

In fact, they didn't meet with a single incident worth mentioning till they came to Perugia. Perugia is one of the finest places in Italy, and really did not deserve to be overhauled so terrifically by the Papal troops. Every body remembers that affair. At the time when the Dodge Club arrived at this city they found the Papal party in the middle of a reaction. They actually began to fear that they had gone a little too far. They were making friendly overtures to the outraged citizens. But the latter were implacable, stiff!

What rankled most deeply was the maddening fact that these Swiss, who were made the ministers of vengeance, were part of that accursed, detested, hated, shunned, despised, abhorred, loathed, execrated, contemptible, stupid, thick-headed, brutal, gross, cruel, b.e.s.t.i.a.l, demoniacal, fiendish, and utterly abominable race--_I Tedeschi_ --whose very name, when hissed from an Italian month, expresses unutterable scorn and undying hate.

They left Perugia at early dawn. Jogging on easily over the hills, they were calculating the time when they would reach Florence.

In the disturbed state of Italy at this time, resulting from war and political excitement, and general expectation of universal change, the country was filled with disorder, and scoundrels infested the roads, particularly in the Papal territories. Here the Government, finding sufficient employment for all its energies in taking care of itself, could scarcely be expected to take care either of its own subjects or the traveller through its dominions.

The Americans had heard several stories about brigands, but had given themselves no trouble whatever about them.

Now it came to pa.s.s that about five miles from Perugia they wound round a very thickly-wooded mountain, which ascended on the left, far above, and on the right descended quite abruptly into a gorge.

d.i.c.k was outside; the others inside. Suddenly a loud shout, and a scream from Pietro. The carriage stopped.

The inside pa.s.sengers could see the horses rearing and plunging, and d.i.c.k, s.n.a.t.c.hing whip and reins from Pietro, lashing them with all his might. In a moment all inside was in an uproar.

"We are attacked!" cried b.u.t.tons.

"The devil!" cried the Senator, who, in his sudden excitement, used the first and only profane expression which his friends ever heard him utter.

Out came the Doctor's revolver.

Bang! bang! wept two rifles outside, and a loud voice called on them to surrender.

"_Andate al Diavolo_!" pealed out d.i.c.k's voice as loud as a trumpet.

His blows fell fast and furiously on the horses. Maddened by pain, the animals bounded forward for a few rods, and then swerving from the road-side, dashed against the precipitous hill, where the coach stuck, the horses rearing.

Through the doors which they had flung open in order to jump out the occupants of the carriage saw the reeling figures of armed men overthrown and cursing. In a moment they all were out.

Bang! and then--

Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-bang! went half a dozen rifles.

Thank Heaven! not one of the Club, was struck. There were twenty scoundrels armed to the teeth.

The Doctor was as stiff as a rock. He aimed six times as calmly as though he were in a pistol-gallery. Nerve told. Six explosions roared. Six yells followed. Six men reeled.

"I'd give ten years of my life for such a pistol!" cried b.u.t.tons.

The Italians were staggered. d.i.c.k had a bowie-knife. The Senator grasped a ponderous beam that he had placed on the coach in case of another break-down. Mr. Figgs had a razor which he had grabbed from the storehouse in the Doctor's pocket. b.u.t.tons had nothing. But on the road lay three Italians writhing.

"Hurrah!" cried b.u.t.tons. "Load again, Doctor. Come; let's make a rush and get these devils on the road."