"Of course," replied Mr. Merrick, carelessly. "Old Vesuve seems on a
rampage. But never mind that now. We've just come from America, where
the mountains are more polite, and we're going to stop at your hotel."

The concierge's eyes wandered from the man to the three girls who had
entered and grouped themselves behind him. Then they fell upon the
driver of the carriage, who burst into a torrent of vociferous but
wholly unintelligible exclamations which Uncle John declared "must be an
excuse--and a mighty poor one--for talking."

The whiskered man, whose cap was elaborately embroidered in gold with
the words "Hotel du Vesuve," seemed to understand the driver. He sighed
drearily and said to Mr. Merrick:

"You must pay him thirty lira."

"How much is that?"

"Six dollars."

"Not by a jugfull!"

"You made no bargain."

"I couldn't. He can't talk."

"He claims it is you who cannot talk."

"What!"