Mollie and the Unwiseman Abroad

And so the queer old gentleman climbed into his carpet-bag, which Mollie placed for him over near the window where the light was better and settled down comfortably to read his new book, "French in Five Lessons."

"I'm glad he's going to stay in there," said Whistlebinkie, as he and Mollie started out for a walk in Hyde Park. "Because I wouldn't be a bit surprised after all he's told us if the pleese were looking for him."

"Neither should I," said Mollie. "If what he says about the British Museum is true and they really haven't any things from the United States in there, there's nothing they'd like better than to capture an American and put him up in a glass case along with those mummies."

All of which seemed to prove that for once the Unwiseman was a very wise old person.

VIII

THE UNWISEMAN'S FRENCH

The following two days passed very slowly for poor Mollie. It wasn't that she was not interested in the wonders of the historic Tower which she visited and where she saw all the crown jewels, a lot of dungeons and a splendid collection of armor and rare objects connected with English history; nor in the large number of other things to be seen in and about London from Westminster Abbey to Hampton Court and the Thames, but that she was lonesome without the Unwiseman. Both she and Whistlebinkie had approached the carpet-bag wherein the old gentleman lay hidden several times, and had begged him to come out and join them in their wanderings, but he not only wouldn't come out, but would not answer them. Possibly he did not hear when they called him, possibly he was too deeply taken up by his study of French to bother about anything else – whatever it was that caused it, he was as silent as though he were deaf and dumb.

"Less-sopen-thbag," suggested Whistlebinkie. "I-don'-bleeve-hes-sinthera-tall."

"Oh yes he's in there," said Mollie. "I've heard him squeak two or three times."

"Waddeesay?" said Whistlebinkie.

"What?" demanded Mollie, with a slight frown.

"What-did-he-say?" asked Whistlebinkie, more carefully.

"I couldn't quite make out," said Mollie. "Sounded like a little pig squeaking."

"I guess it was-sfrench," observed Whistlebinkie with a broad grin. "Maybe he was saying Wee-wee-wee. That's what little pigs say, and Frenchmen too – I've heard 'em."

"Very likely," said Mollie. "I don't know what wee-wee-wee means in little pig-talk, but over in Paris it means, 'O yes indeed, you're perfectly right about that.'"

"He'll never be able to learn French," laughed Whistlebinkie. "That is not so that he can speak it. Do you think he will?"

"That's what I'm anxious to see him for," said Mollie. "I'm just crazy to find out how he is getting along."

But all their efforts to get at the old gentleman were, as I have already said, unavailing. They knocked on the bag, and whispered and hinted and tried every way to draw him out but it was not until the little party was half way across the British Channel, on their way to France, that the Unwiseman spoke. Then he cried from the depths of the carpet bag:

"Hi there – you people outside, what's going on out there, an earthquake?"

"Whatid-i-tellu'" whistled Whistlebinkie. "That ain't French. Thass-singlish."

"Hallo-outside ahoy!" came the Unwiseman's voice again. "Slidyvoo la slide sur le top de cette carpet-bag ici and let me out!"

"That's French!" cried Mollie clapping her hands ecstatically together.

"Then I understand French too!" said Whistlebinkie proudly, "because I know what he wants. He wants to get out."

"Do you want to come out, Mr. Unwiseman?" said Mollie bending over the carpet-bag, and whispering through the lock.

"Wee-wee-wee," said the Unwiseman.

"More-pig-talk," laughed Whistlebinkie. "He's the little pig that went to market."

"No – it was the little pig that stayed at home that said wee, wee, wee all day long," said Mollie.

"Je desire to be lettyd out pretty quick if there's un grand big earthquake going on," cried the Unwiseman.

Mollie slid the nickeled latch on the top of the carpet-bag along and in a moment it flew open.

"Kesserkersayker what's going on out ici?" demanded the Unwiseman, as he popped out of the bag. "Je ne jammy knew such a lot of motiong. London Bridge ain't falling down again, is it?"

"No," said Mollie. "We're on the boat crossing the British Channel."

"Oh – that's it eh?" said the Unwiseman gazing about him anxiously, and looking rather pale, Mollie thought. "Well I thought it was queer. When I went to sleep last night everything was as still as Christmas, and when I waked up it was movier than a small boy in a candy store. So we're on the ocean again eh?"

"Not exactly," said Mollie. "We're on what they call the Channel."

"Seems to me the waves are just as big as they are on the ocean, and the water just as wet," said the Unwiseman, as the ship rose and fell with the tremendous swell of the sea, thereby adding much to his uneasiness.

"Yes – but it isn't so wide," explained Mollie. "It isn't more than thirty miles across."

"Then I don't see why they don't build a bridge over it," said the Unwiseman. "This business of a little bit of a piece of water putting on airs like an ocean ought to be put a stop to. This motion has really very much unsettled – my French. I feel so queer that I can't remember even what la means, and as for kesserkersay, I've forgotten if it's a horse hair sofa or a pair of brass andirons, and I had it all in my head not an hour ago. O – d-dud-dear!"

The Unwiseman plunged headlong into his carpet-bag again and pulled the top of it to with a snap.

"Oh my, O me!" he groaned from its depths. "O what a wicked channel to behave this way. Mollie – Moll-lie – O Mollie I say."

"Well?" said Mollie.

"Far from it – very unwell," groaned the Unwiseman. "Will you be good enough to ask the cook for a little salad oil?"

"Mercy," cried Mollie. "You don't want to mix a salad now do you?"

"Goodness, no!" moaned the Unwiseman. "I want you to pour it on those waves and sort of clam them down and then, if you don't mind, take the carpet-bag – "

"Yes," said Mollie.

"And chuck it overboard," groaned the Unwiseman. "I – I don't feel as if I cared ever to hear the dinner-bell again."

Poor Unwiseman! He was suffering the usual fate of those who cross the British Channel, which behaves itself at times as if it really did have an idea that it was a great big ocean and had an ocean's work to do. But fortunately this uneasy body of water is not very wide, and it was not long before the travellers landed safe and sound on the solid shores of France, none the worse for their uncomfortable trip.

"I guess you were wise not to throw me overboard after all," said the Unwiseman, as he came out of the carpet-bag at Calais. "I feel as fine as ever now and my lost French has returned."

"I'd like to hear some," said Mollie.

"Very well," replied the Unwiseman carelessly. "Go ahead and ask me a question and I'll answer it in French."

"Hm! Let me see," said Mollie wondering how to begin. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Wee Munsieur, j'ay le pain," replied the Unwiseman gravely.