"Bad health; bad health, and damned hard luck, that's what has finished up this child. If it worn't for them, I should be worth my hundred thousand dollars this very minute." Another fit of coughing. "So you've ben across before. Well, so've I. That was three years ago, by the doctors' advice. It's great advice they give a man. It's good for their pockets, and there's deused little else it's good for. I spent that year over three thousand dollars; and if I'd staid to home, and stuck to my business, _I_ should have ben jest about as well, and cleared,--well, yes, I should have cleared double the money, at the smallest figger." More coughing. "I expect you travel for pleasure." Morton replied by an inarticulate sound, which the other might interpret as he pleased. He chose to interpret it in the affirmative. "Well, that's all very well for a young man like you. You are young enough to like to look at the curiosities, and take an interest in what's going on; but I'm too old a bird for that. One night I was down to Palermo, there was an eruption of Mount Etna going on. We were on the piazzy at the back of Marston the consul's house, and there it was blazing away to kill, way off on the further side of the island. Well, the ladies was all O-ing and Ah-ing like fits. 'Nonsense!' says I; 'it ain't a circumstance to the fire that burnt down my splendid new freestone-front store on Broadway. Now that was something worth saying O at.'" More coughing. "There was a young man there from Boston, and we went round to look at the churches. He was all for staring at the pictures, and the marble images, and the Lord knows what all, while I went and paced off the length of the church from the door up to the altar, and then again crosswise. There wasn't a church in Palermo worth shaking a stick at that I didn't know the size of, and have it all set down on paper." "And what good did that do you?" "What good did that do me? Why, I had something to show for my pains, something that would keep. They wanted me to ride up on the back of a jackass to the top of a mountain to see a cavern where some she saint or other used to live,--St. Rosa Lee, or some such nigger-minstrel name." "St. Rosalie, I suppose you mean." "St. Rosaly or St. Rosa Lee, it comes to pretty much the same. She was fool enough to leave a comfortable home--inside of a palace, too, be gad--and go and live all alone by herself in that cavern. Well, they wanted me to ride up on the jackass and see it. 'No,' says I, 'you don't ketch me,' says I; 'if I did, I might as well change places with the jackass right away,' says I." A fresh fit of coughing.