Tracks Of A Rolling Stone by Henry J. Coke (top ten books of all time .TXT) 📕

There Was No Saying,  Etc.,  Etc. . . . In Short We Had Better

Stay Where We Were Till They Got Through.  Fred Laughed At

The Fellow's Alarm,  And Told Him He Might Stop If He Liked, 

But We Meant To Go On.

As Usual,  When We Reached The Next Stage,  The Diggers Were

Before Us; And When Our Men Began To Unsaddle At A Hut About

Fifty Yards From Where They Were Feeding Their Horses,  One Of

Them,  The Biggest Blackguard To Look At Of The Lot,  And

Though The Fiercest Probably The Greatest Cur,  Shouted At Us

To Put The Saddles On Again And 'Get Out Of That.'  He Had

Warned Us In The Morning That They'd Had Enough Of Us,  And, 

With A Volley Of Oaths,  Advised Us To Be Off.  Fred,  Who Was

In His Shirt-Sleeves,  Listened At First With A Look Of

Surprise At Such Cantankerous Unreasonableness; But When The

Ruffian Fell To Swear And Threaten,  He Burst Into One Of His

Contemptuous Guffaws,  Turned His Back And Began To Feed His

Horse With A Corncob.  Thus Insulted,  The Digger Ran Into The

Hut (As I Could See) To Get His Rifle.  I Snatched Up My Own, 

Which I Had Been Using Every Day To Practise At The Large

Iguanas And Macaws,  And,  Well Protected By My Horse,  Called

Out As I Covered Him,  'This Is A Double-Barrelled Rifle.  If

You Raise Yours I'll Drop You Where You Stand.'  He Was

Forestalled And Taken Aback.  Probably He Meant Nothing But

Bravado.  Still,  The Situation Was A Critical One.  Obviously

I Could Not Wait Till He Had Shot My Friend.  But Had It Come

To Shooting There Would Have Been Three Left,  Unless My

Second Barrel Had Disposed Of Another.  Fortunately The

'Boss' Of The Digging Party Gauged The Gravity Of The Crisis

At A Glance; And Instead Of Backing Him Up As Expected,  Swore

At Him For A 'Derned Fool,' And Ordered Him To Have No More

To Do With Us.

After That,  As We Drew Near To The City,  The Country Being

More Thickly Populated,  We No Longer Clashed.

This Is Not A Guide-Book,  And I Have Nothing To Tell Of That

Readers Would Not Find Better Described In Their 'Murray.' 

We Put Up In An Excellent Hotel Kept By M. Arago,  The Brother

Of The Great French Astronomer.  The Only Other Travellers In

It Besides Ourselves Were The Famous Dancer Cerito,  And Her 

Husband The Violin Virtuoso,  St. Leon.  Luckily For Me Our

English Minister Was Mr. Percy Doyle,  Whom I Had Known As

Attache At Paris When I Was At Larue,  And Who Was A Great

Friend Of The De Cubriers.  We Were Thus Provided With Many

Advantages For 'Sight-Seeing' In And About The City,  And Also

For More Distant Excursions Through Credentials From The

Mexican Authorities.  Under These Auspices We Visited The

Silver Mines At Guadalajara,  Potosi,  And Guanajuata.

The Life In Mexico City Was Delightful,  After A Year's Tramp. 

The Hotel,  As I Have Said,  Was To Us Luxurious.  My Room

Under The Verandah Opened On To A Large And Beautiful Garden

Partially Enclosed On Two Sides.  As I Lay In Bed Of A

Morning Reading Prescott's 'History Of Mexico,' Or Watching

The Brilliant Humming Birds As They Darted From Flower To

Flower,  And Listened To The Gentle Plash Of The Fountain,  My

Cup Of Enjoyment And Romance Was Brimming Over.

Just Before I Left,  An Old Friend Of Mine Arrived From

England.  This Was Mr. Joseph Clissold.  He Was A

Schoolfellow Of Mine At Sheen.  He Had Pulled In The

Cambridge Boat,  And Played In The Cambridge Eleven.  He

Afterwards Became A Magistrate Either In Australia Or New

Zealand.  He Was The Best Type Of The Good-Natured,  Level-

Headed,  Hard-Hitting Englishman.  Curiously Enough,  As It

Turned Out,  The Greater Part Of The Only Conversation We Had

(I Was Leaving The Day After He Came) Was About The

Brigandage On The Road Between Mexico And Vera Cruz.  He Told

Me The Passengers In The Diligence Which Had Brought Him Up

Had Been Warned At Jalapa That The Road Was Infested By

Robbers; And Should The Coach Be Stopped They Were On No

Account To Offer Resistance,  For The Robbers Would Certainly

Shoot Them If They Did.

Fred Chose To Ride Down To The Coast,  I Went By Coach.  This

Held Six Inside And Two By The Driver.  Three Of The Inside

Passengers Sat With Backs To The Horses,  The Others Facing

Them.  My Coach Was Full,  And Stifling Hot And Stuffy It Was

Before We Had Done With It.  Of The Five Others Two Were Fat

Priests,  And For Twenty Hours My Place Was Between Them.  But

In One Way I Had My Revenge:  I Carried My Loaded Rifle

Between My Knees,  And A Pistol In My Belt.  The Dismay,  The

Terror,  The Panic,  The Protestations,  The Entreaties And

Execrations Of All The Five,  Kept Us At Least From Ennui For

Many A Weary Mile.  I Doubt Whether The Two Priests Ever

Thumbed Their Breviaries So Devoutly In Their Lives.  Perhaps

That Brought Us Salvation.  We Reached Vera Cruz Without

Adventure,  And In The Autumn Of '51 Fred And I Landed Safely

At Southampton.

Two Months After I Got Back,  I Read An Account In The 'Times'

Of 'Joe' Clissold's Return Trip From Mexico.  The Coach In

Which He Was Travelling Was Stopped By Robbers.  Friend

Joseph Was Armed With A Double-Barrelled Smooth-Bore Loaded 

With Slugs.  He Considered This On The Whole More Suitable

Than A Rifle.  When The Captain Of The Brigands Opened The

Coach Door And,  Pistol In Hand,  Politely Proffered His

Request,  Mr. Joe Was Quite Ready For Him,  And Confided The

Contents Of One Barrel To The Captain's Bosom.  Seeing The

Fate Of Their Commander,  And Not Knowing What Else The Dilly

Might Contain,  The Rest Of The Band Dug Spurs Into Their

Horses And Fled.  But The Sturdy Oarsman And Smart Cricketer

Was Too Quick For One Of Them - The Horse Followed His

Friends,  But The Rider Stayed With His Chief.

The Following Winter,  My Friend,  George Cayley,  Was Ordered

To The South For His Health.  He Went To Seville.  I Joined

Him There; And We Took Lodgings And Remained Till The Spring. 

As Cayley Published An Amusing Account Of Our Travels,  'Las

Aforjas,  Or The Bridle Roads Of Spain,' As This Is More Than

Fifty Years Ago - Before The Days Of Railways And Tourists -

And As I Kept No Journal Of My Own,  I Will Make Free Use Of

His.

A Few Words Will Show The Terms We Were On.

I Had Landed At Cadiz,  And Had Gone Up The Guadalquivir In A

Steamer,  Whose Advent At Seville My Friend Was On The Look-

Out For.  He Describes His Impatience For Her Arrival.  By

Some Mistake He Is Misinformed As To The Time; He Is A

Quarter Of An Hour Late.

'A Remnant Of Passengers Yet Bustled Around The Luggage, 

Arguing,  Struggling And Bargaining With A Contentious Company

Of Porters.  Alas! H. Was Not To Be Seen Among Them.  There

Was Still A Chance; He Might Be One Of The Passengers Who Had

Got Ashore Before My Coming Down,  And I Was Preparing To Rush

Back To The City To Ransack The Hotels.  Just Then An

Internal Convulsion Shook The Swarm Around The Luggage Pile;

Out Burst A Little Gallego Staggering Under A Huge British

Portmanteau,  And Followed By Its Much Desired,  And Now Almost

Despaired Of,  Proprietor.

'I Saw Him Come Bowling Up The Slope With His Familiar Gait, 

Evidently Unconscious Of My Presence,  And Wearing That Sturdy

And Almost Hostile Demeanour With Which A True Briton Marches 

Into A Strange City Through The Army Of Officious

Importunates Who Never Fail To Welcome The True Briton's

Arrival.  As He Passed The Barrier He Came Close To Me In The

Crowd,  Still Without Recognising Me,  For Though Straight

Before His Nose I Was Dressed In The Costume Of The People. 

I Touched His Elbow And He Turned Upon Me With A Look Of

Impatient Defiance,  Thinking Me One Persecutor More.

'How Quickly The Expression Changed,  Etc.,  Etc.  We Rushed

Into Each Other's Arms,  As Much As The Many Great Coats Slung

Over His Shoulders,  And The Deep Folds Of Cloak In Which I

Was Enveloped,  Would Mutually Permit.  Then,  Saying More Than

A Thousand Things In A Breath,  Or Rather In No Breath At All, 

We Set Off In Great Glee For My Lodgings,  Forgetting In The

Excitement The Poor Little Porter Who Was Following At Full

Trot,  Panting And Puffing Under The Heavy Portmanteau.  We

Got Home,  But Were No Calmer.  We Dined,  But Could Not Eat. 

We Talked,  But The News Could Not Be Persuaded To Come Out

Quick Enough.'

Who Has Not Known What Is Here Described?  Who Does Not Envy

The Freshness,  The Enthusiasm,  Of Such Bubbling Of Warm Young

Hearts?  Oh,  The Pity Of It! If These Generous Emotions

Should Prove As Transient As Youth Itself.  And Then,  When

One Of Those Young Hearts Is Turned To Dust,  And One Is Left

To Think Of It - Why Then,  'Tis Not Much Comfort To Reflect

That - Nothing In The World Is Commoner.

We Got A Spanish Master And Worked Industriously,  Also Picked

Up All The Andalusian We Could,  Which Is As Much Like Pure

Castilian As Wold-Yorkshire Is To English.  I Also Took

Lessons On The Guitar.  Thus Prepared,  I Imitated My Friend

And Adopted The Ordinary Costume Of The Andalusian Peasant: 

Breeches,  Ornamented With Rows Of Silvered Buttons,  Gaiters, 

A Short Jacket With A Red Flower-Pot And Blue Lily On The

Back,  And Elbows With Green And Scarlet Patterns,  A Red Faja

Or Sash,  And The Sombrero Which I Believe Is