"And prices are advanced during these awful days. What does it matter?
Your money will do you no good when we are all buried deep in ash and
scoria."

The big man shuddered at this gloomy picture, and added, listlessly:
"You'll have to pay."

Uncle John paid, but the driver wouldn't accept American money. The
disconsolate concierge would, though. He unlocked a drawer, put the six
dollars into one section and drew from another two ten-lira notes. The
driver took them, bowed respectfully to the whiskered man, shot a
broadside of invective Italian at the unconscious Americans, and left
the hotel.

"How about rooms?" asked Uncle John.

"Take any you please," answered the concierge. "All our guests are gone
but two--two mad Americans like yourselves. The servants are also gone;
the chef has gone; the elevator conductors are gone. If you stay you'll
have to walk up."

"Where have they all gone?" asked Uncle John, wonderingly.

"Fled, sir; fled to escape destruction. They remember Pompeii. Only
Signor Floriano, the proprietor, and myself are left. We stick to the
last. We are brave."

"So I see. Now, look here, my manly hero. It's possible we shall all
live through it; I'll bet you a thousand to ten that we do. And then