“What a burden to carry on a donkey’s back!” I laughed.  “You are a regular Beau Brummel.”

“Why not?” pleaded the boy.  “I like pretty things, and this is very convenient.  It is no trouble for Souris.  When the bag is in the ruecksack, no one would suspect that it is valuable.  I have carried all this luggage so, ever since Lucerne, and never had any bother before.”

“What, you too started from Lucerne?”

“Yes.  I had Innocentina and the donkeys come up from the Riviera, to meet me there.  We have been a long time on the way—­weeks:  for we have stopped wherever we liked, and as long as we liked.  Until to-day we haven’t had a single real adventure.  I was wishing for one, but now—­well, I suppose most adventures are disagreeable when they are happening, and only turn nice afterwards, in memory.”

“Like caterpillars when they become butterflies.  But look here, my young friend David, lest you meet another Goliath, I really think you’d better put up with the proximity (I don’t say society) of that hateful animal, Man, as far as Aosta.  Joseph and I will either keep a few yards in advance, or a few yards in the rear, not to annoy you with our detestable company, but——­”

“Please don’t be revengeful,” entreated the ex-Brat.  “You have been so good to us, don’t be un-good now.  I suppose one may hate men, yet be grateful to one man—­anyhow, till one finds him out?  I can’t very well find you out between here and Aosta, can I?—­so we may be friends, if you’ll walk beside me, neither behind nor in front.  I am excited, and feel as if I must have someone to talk to, but I am a little tired of conversation with Innocentina.  I know all she has ever thought about since she was born.”

“It’s a bargain then,” said I.  “We’re friends and comrades—­until Aosta.  After that——­”

“Each goes his own way,” he finished my broken sentence; “as ships pass in the night.  But this little sailing boat won’t forget that the big bark came to its help, in a storm which it couldn’t have weathered alone.”

“Do you know,” said I, as we walked on together, the muleteer and the donkey girl behind us, with the animals, “you are a very odd boy.  I suppose it is being American.  Are all American boys like you?”

“Yes,” said he, twinkling, “all.  I am cut on exactly the same pattern as the rest,” and he smiled a charming smile, of which I could not resist the curious fascination.  “Did you never meet any American boys, till you met me?”

“I can’t remember having any real conversation with one, except once.  His mother had asked me in his presence (it was in New York) how I liked America, and I had answered that it dazzled me; that the only yearning I felt was for something dark and quiet, and small and uncomfortable.  She was rather pleased, but the boy put a string across the drawing-room door when I went out, and tripped me up.  Then we had a little conversation—­quite a short one—­but full of repartee.  That’s my solitary experience.”