We drove back to the town, separated, and wandered about where fancy led us. Laura and I had a little business with the American consul, who is an example of what an American consul ought to be: a gentleman who is a consul by profession and not by party favor, being the third Sprague in line who has held the post. Through him we met a most interesting person, one who brought us in direct contact, as it were, with that old first party of Pilgrims to make the Oriental cruise. Michael Benunes was his name, guide and courier to Mark Twain and his party, forty-two years ago.

Benunes must have been a handsome creature in those days; he is a handsome creature still--tall, finely featured, with flowing black hair--carrying his sixty-five years as lightly as wind-flowers--gay, voluble, enthusiastic--ready for the future, glorying in the past. He took us to a coffee-house and entertained us, and held us enthralled for an hour or more with his tide of eloquence and information. He told us of the trip he had made through Spain with the "Innocents"; of many other trips in lands near and far. He told us of the things in Gibraltar we had not seen--of the galleries and the monkey-pit; also, of the wonderful monkeys themselves who inhabit the Rock and are intelligent almost beyond belief--who refrain from speaking English only because they are afraid of having red coats and caps put on them and being made into soldiers.

Gibraltar was once a part of Africa, according to tradition, and the monkeys remained on the Rock when the separation took place. But guides know that a subterranean pa.s.sage from the bottomless monkey-pit connects the Rock with Africa to this day; also that the monkeys travel back and forth through it and keep posted on warfare and new inventions, in preparation for a time when they shall be ready to regain their lost empire, and that sometimes at dusk, if one lies hidden and remains very quiet, he may overhear them discuss these things, as in the failing twilight they "walk together, holding each other's tails."

[Ill.u.s.tration: WE COULD HAVE LISTENED ALL NIGHT TO BEnUNES]

We could have listened all night to Benunes, for he made the old time and still older traditions real to us. And perhaps Benunes would have talked all night, for he declared--and we believed him--that he could talk for five hours without a break. Naturally I expected to pay the score in the coffee-house and to make some special acknowledgment to Benunes for his time. Not at all; he called the waiter with a flourish, threw down more than enough money and told him to keep the change, regretting volubly that we could not partake further of his hospitality.

We should have the freedom of the city--of everything--he said, when we came again. Ah me! I suspect there is only one Benunes, and that he belongs to a time which will soon vanish away.

We went through the town--almost a closed town, because it was Sunday, and not an inviting town, I think, at best. Here and there were narrow streets that wound up or down, yet were only mildly seductive. But it is a cosmopolitan town--the most cosmopolitan town on earth, perhaps. Every kind of money is in use there--every language is spoken.

"Picture postals twelve for a quarter!" was the American cry that greeted us at every turn. If we had been English it would have been "twelve for a shilling," or if German "_zwolf fur ein Mark_," no doubt.

They do not mistake nationalities in Gibraltar--they have all kinds to study from. Moors we saw--black, barelegged, and gayly attired--a taste of the Orient we were about to enter--and if there were any nationalities we did not see in this motley-thronged Mediterranean gateway I do not recall them now. We bought a few postal cards, and two fans with bull-fights on them, but unlike the _Quaker City_ "Pilgrims"

we bought no gloves.

I did look at certain stylish young creatures who pa.s.sed now and then, and wondered if one of them might not be the bewitching saleslady who had sold those gloves. And then I remembered: she would not be young and bewitching any more; she would be carrying the burden and the record of many years. Unlike the first "Pilgrims," too, we did not hear the story of the "Queen's Chair." That was worn out, at last, and exists to-day only in the guide-books. We drove over to Spanish Town by and by, but it was still less inviting over there, so we drove back, pa.s.sed out through the great gates which close every evening at sunset, and waited at the pier for the little tender, for it was near evening and we were through with Gibraltar--ready for the comfort of the ship.

It is a curious place--a place of a day's interest for the traveller--of enormous interest to the military world. For two hundred years it has been maintained with English blood and treasure, until it has become the most costly jewel of that lavish kingdom. There are those to-day--Englishmen--who say it is not worth the price--that it is no longer worth any price--and they advocate returning it to Spain. No army could take it, and no army wants to take it--nothing could be gained by taking it any more. But it is one of England's precious traditions, and it will take another two hundred years of vast maintenance before England will let that tradition go.

There were papers on the tender, London and Paris journals, but the only American news was that Congress had been advised against tinkering with the tariff. That did not interest us. Had we not been face to face with the headquarters of tariff that very morning, and heard the story of how that n.o.ble industry was born? This later item was mere detail.

Back on the ship, looking at the lion couchant while the twilight falls and the lights come out along its base. There is no harshness now. The lion's skin has become velvet--it is a veritable lion asleep among fireflies. We lift anchor and steam slowly into the Mediterranean. The lion loses its form, becomes a dark wedge, the thin edge toward Spain.

Night deepens as we creep farther around; the wedge shortens, contracts to a cone, a pyramid--the level sea changes to a desert. The feeling somehow grows that Africa has reclaimed its own--the Lion of England has become a pyramid of the sands.

IX

EARLY MEDITERRANEAN EXPERIENCES

Our first day in the Mediterranean was without a flaw. It was a quiet, sunlit day--just pleasantly warm--the ship steady as a rock on that luminous, level sea. No wonder the ancients did not want to leave these placid tides and venture out upon the dark tossing Atlantic which they could see foaming just beyond the Pillars of Hercules. No wonder they peopled those hungry wastes with monsters and evil spirits. Here, on this tranquil sea, there were no unfamiliar dangers. The summer sh.o.r.es that shut them in held all their world--a golden world of romance wherein G.o.ds mingled with the affairs of men; where fauns and hamadryads flitted through the groves; where nereids and tritons sported along the waves.

We have all day and night to get to Algiers--now less than three hundred miles away--so we are just loafing along making wide circles--"to test the compa.s.s," one of the officers said a while ago. I did not know they had to test compa.s.ses, and I'm rather doubtful about the matter, still.

I suspect that officer is enjoying himself quietly at our expense. I suspect it, because he is the same officer who told the Credulous One the other day when the ship was rolling heavily, that the jarring, beating sound we heard every now and then was made by the ship running over whales. The noise was really made by the screw lifting out of the water, and pounding the surface with its blades, but the Credulous One, who is a trusting soul--a stout lady of middle age and gentle spirit--believed the whale story and repeated it around the ship. She said how many whales there must be down here, and pitied them whenever she heard that cruel sound.

That officer came along again, a moment ago, and told us that the mountains nearest are called the Sierra de Gata, which sounds true.

Somewhere beyond them lies Grenada and the Alhambra, and there, too, is the old, old city of Cordova, capital of the Moorish kings, and for three hundred years one of the greatest centres of commerce in the world. But these things are only history. What we care for on a day like this is invention--romance--and remembering that somewhere beyond that snowy rim Don Quixote and Sancho wandered through the fields of fancy and the woods of dream makes us wish that we might anchor along those sh.o.r.es and follow that vagrant quest.

I drifted into the smoking-room and mentioned these things to the Reprobates, but they did not seem interested. They had the place all to themselves and the Doctor was dozing in one corner--between naps administering philosophy to the Colonel and the Apostle, who were engaged in their everlasting game of piquet. He roused up when I came in to deal out a few comforting remarks.

"What do they care for scenery, or romance," he said, "or anything else except to gamble all day? All you've got to do is to look at them to get an inventory of their characters. Just look at the Colonel for instance; did you ever see a better picture of Captain Kidd? Made his money out of publishing the Bible without reading it and thinks he must go to the Holy Land now to square himself. And the Apostle, there--look at him! Look at his shape--why, he's likely to blow up, any time. Some people think these are patients of mine. Nice advertis.e.m.e.nt, a pair like that!"

I thought the Doctor a trifle hard on his fellow-Reprobates. I thought the Colonel rather handsome, and I had seen him studying his guide-book more than once. As for the Apostle, I said that I never really felt that he was about to blow up; that appearances were often deceitful and very likely there was no immediate danger.

They were not inclined to be sociable--the Colonel and the Apostle. They merely intimated that we might go away, preferably to a place not down on the ship's itinerary, and kept on with their eternal game.

It is curious, the fascination of that game, piquet--still more curious how anybody can ever learn to play it. In fact n.o.body ever does learn it. There are no rules--no discoverable rules. It is purely an inspirational game, if one may judge from this exhibition of it. After the cards are dealt out, the Colonel picks up his hand, jerks his hat a little lower over his eyes, skins through his a.s.sortment, and says "Huh!" At the same time the Apostle puts on his holiest look--chin up, eye drooped, bland and child-like--examines his collection, and says, "G.o.ddlemighty!"

Then they play--that is, they go through the motions. The Colonel puts down a handful of cards and says "Eight." The Apostle never looks at them, but puts down a bigger handful of his own and says "Eleven." Then the Colonel puts down another lot and says "Fourteen." Then the Apostle lays down the balance of his stock and the Colonel says, "h.e.l.l, Joe,"

and they set down some figures. When they are through, the Colonel owes the Apostle seven dollars.

Yes, it is a curious game, and would make the Colonel a pauper in time, if nature did not provide other means of adjustment. After the Apostle has his winnings comfortably put away and settled into place, the Colonel takes out a new five-dollar gold piece, regards it thoughtfully, turns it over, reads the date, and comments on its beauty. Then suddenly he slaps it down on the table under his hand.

"Match you, Joe," he says, "match you for five!"

But the Apostle is wary. He smiles benignly while he turns his face from temptation.

"No you don't," he says, "never again."

The Colonel slaps the coin down again, quite smartly.

"Just once, Joe," he wheedles; "just once, for luck!"

The Apostle strokes his chubby, child-like countenance with the tips of his fingers, still looking away--his eyes turned heavenward.

"I won't do it, I tell you. No, now go on away. I told you yesterday I wouldn't match you again--ever."

"Just once, Joe--just this one time."

"I won't do it."

The Apostle's att.i.tude is still resolute, but there is a note of weakening in his voice and his hand is working almost imperceptibly toward his pocket.

"Just once more, Joe, just for five dollars--one turn."

The Apostle's hand is in his pocket.

"Now, I tell you," he says, "I'll match you this one time, and never again."

"All right, Joe, just this one time, for luck; come on, now."

The coins go down together, and when they are uncovered the Colonel takes both, always. Then the Apostle jerks up his cap, jams it on, and starts for the deck.

"Hold on, Joe; just once more--just for luck."

"You go to h.e.l.l, will you?"

This is the programme daily with but slight variation. Sometimes the Apostle wins less than seven dollars--sometimes he loses more than five; but he always does win at piquet and he always does lose at matching.

Thus do the unseen forces preserve the balance of exchange.

We crossed over and came in sight of the mountains of Algeria during the afternoon, and all the rest of this halcyon day we skirted the African sh.o.r.e, while Laura and I and two other juveniles kept a game of shuffleboard going on the after deck. To-night there is to be another grand dinner and dance, in honor of Washington's Birthday. We shall awake to-morrow in the harbor of Algiers.