Three months later Bernard and Mr. Cunningham were domiciled in the
Hotel Constance in Rome. They had taken a leisurely course from London,
staying three weeks in Paris, visiting the interior of France, and
spending some weeks in Switzerland and northern Italy. They had now been
two weeks in Rome, and used the time to good advantage in visiting the
art galleries and the ruins of the ancient city.
Bernard had enjoyed everything, and had managed to pick up some
conversational Italian. To some extent he had acted as courier for Mr.
Cunningham, who had always been accustomed to have things done for him.
He found Bernard especially useful, as he had dismissed his servant at
Milan. The latter was a stiff-necked Englishman, and was continually
getting into trouble from his inability to adapt himself to foreigners
and foreign ways.
“Are you ready to leave Rome, Bernard?” asked Walter Cunningham.
“Whenever you are,” answered Bernard promptly.
“Of course we have not seen all or even a small part of the things
worth seeing, but I am tired of sightseeing. I have thought that an
independent excursion in our own carriage, not following any prescribed
course, but halting where the fancy seizes us, would be enjoyable.”
“I should like nothing better,” said Bernard enthusiastically. “In what
direction do you propose to go?”
“In the general direction of Naples.”
“I am told by an American, who is a guest at this hotel, that there are
several routes.”
“That is true. I have decided to go by way of Frosinone, San Germano,
and Capua. The route is said to be very interesting. I wish you would
look up a _vetturino_ and arrange to hire him by the day. Then we shall
be able to pursue an independent course.”
“I will do so, Walter. Have you any instructions as to the price?”
“No: you know from the short excursions we have made what is fair and
moderate. You may as well select a _vettura_ that is roomy and large
enough to accommodate four persons. We don’t want to be cramped, for
that will interfere with our enjoyment.”
“And when do you wish to start?”
“To-morrow morning, say at eleven o’clock.”
“Very well. I will attend to it.”
“It is a great comfort to have you with me, Bernard. You take a great
deal of trouble off my hands.”
“I am glad to hear you say that. Think how I would be situated if you
had not taken me up.”
“I have been well repaid for doing so.”
Bernard engaged a _vettura_, a traveling carriage, designed for four
persons, and in an hour it made its appearance. The _vetturino_, as the
driver is called, was a lithe, slender, dark-complexioned man who
answered to the name of Pasquale. What his last name was Bernard did not
inquire, as it was sufficient to have a single name to call him by.
“How long will the signor want the _vettura?_” asked the driver.
“I do not know. We will hire it by the day.”
“And where will the signor wish to go?”
“To Naples, by way of Valmontone and Frosinone. Do you know the route?”
“_Si, signor_, most assuredly.”
Bernard and Mr. Cunningham seated themselves in the carriage, and they
started. They left Rome by the Porta Maggiore, their course being
through the Campagna, the dreary and unwholesome tract in the immediate
neighborhood of Rome. There was very little to see in the first day’s
journey except a ruined aqueduct, which detained them but a short time,
and they pushed on to Valmontone, where they arranged to stop over
night. The inn was far from satisfactory, and they were not tempted to
prolong their stay.
In the evening, as they sat on a bench outside the inn, a man of about
fifty, wearing a tall white hat, with an unmistakable American look,
walked up to them and removing his hat said: “Gentlemen, I’m glad to see
you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Amos Sanderson, and I live
about ten miles from Omaha when I’m at home.”
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sanderson,” said Cunningham
politely. “I am Walter Cunningham, from London.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re an Englishman,” said Sanderson, in
surprise. “You look like an American.”
“Doubtless that is meant as a compliment,” said Cunningham, smiling.
“Well, I never heard any one take offense at being taken for an
American.”
“True. I have been in America, and I understand why it is that you
Americans are proud of your country. However, if I am not an American,
my young friend here, Bernard Brooks, is an American boy.”
“I am glad to meet a fellow countryman, Mr. Sanderson,” remarked
Bernard, smiling.
“Well, well, it does seem real good to meet an American boy,” said Mr.
Sanderson, his face lighting up. “Shake, Bernard, my boy!” and he
extended a muscular hand, which Bernard shook cordially.
“Are you staying at this hotel, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Walter Cunningham.
“Don’t call it a hotel! It doesn’t deserve the name. Call it a tavern.
It’s a regular one horse place.”
“Then I am glad we are only going to stop one night.”
“I have been here a day and a half, and it’s the longest day and a half
I ever passed.”
“Why did you stay if you didn’t like it?”
“I’ll tell you why. I came here in a small _vettura_, and I had a
quarrel with the _vetturino_, who tried to cheat. So I sent him off, and
was glad to get rid of him, for a man with a more villainous countenance
I never saw. I haven’t been able to get another carriage, so here I am.
How did you come?”
“By a _vettura_. We are making the journey in a leisurely way, going as
far or as short a distance daily as we choose.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Naples.”
“So am I. Is your _vettura_ a large one?”
“Large enough to hold four persons. We like plenty of room.”
“Then I’ll make you a proposition. Here I am alone—shipwrecked, as it
were, on land. If you will let me join your party I’ll pay my share of
the expense. In fact, I don’t mind paying more, for I ain’t mean, though
I do hate to be imposed upon. Come now, what do you say?”
Walter Cunningham was rather startled by this unexpected proposal from
an utter stranger. It jarred somewhat against his British exclusiveness.
Still, there was something attractive in the American, rough and
unpolished as he was in his manners, and Cunningham felt that he would
amuse and interest them. As far as honesty went it would be impossible
to suspect Mr. Sanderson. Besides, he looked like a man of substance and
not like an adventurer. Walter Cunningham glanced towards Bernard, and
thought he read in the boy’s face a desire that the American’s proposal
should be accepted.
“I hardly know what to say,” he replied after a pause. “We do not in
general care for the companionship of others, and I can hardly be said
to have much knowledge of you—our acquaintance being of the briefest.”
“About ten minutes,” said Mr. Sanderson. “That’s true, and I’m afraid
it’s cheeky in me to ask you to take me, but I feel sort of drawn to you
both, particularly to my young countryman, Bernard.”
“Say no more, Mr. Sanderson. We’ll take you with us as far as Capua, at
any rate. There, as it is a large and well known place, you will have no
difficulty in making other arrangements.”
“Thank you, squire. You’re a gentleman. You’ll find Amos Sanderson a
true friend, that’ll stand by you through thick and thin. If we are
attacked by bandits, he won’t run away and leave you in the lurch.”
“Bandits? Surely there is no danger of meeting any of them?”
“Well, squire, I wish there wasn’t, but I don’t feel certain. Only last
week a couple of gentlemen were overhauled, and had to pay a good stiff
sum to get away.”
“I supposed the bandits had all been driven out of the country.”
“That’s where you are mistaken. There’s people everywhere that find it
easier and more agreeable to make money by taking it than by earning it,
and I guess Italy has her fair share of such gentry. I’ll tell you a
little secret. I quarreled with my _vetturino_ on purpose. His face was
a villainous one, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he were in
league with some of the bandits.”
“I have heard of such things.”
“Some of these _vetturinos_” (Mr. Sanderson was not aware that he should
have said _vetturini_) “have brothers or cousins among the bandits and
play into their hands. I guess mine was one of that kind.”
“Our _vetturino_ Pasquale seems to be an honest sort of fellow. I should
not suspect him of leading us into a trap.”