“From Brooklyn, Sor,” was his reply, “but I’ll niver go back there, for all my friends have been killed by the trolley cars.”

Larry is very democratic.  The other day a guest, on sitting down to lunch, took too much room upon the bench.

“Plaze move along, Sor,” said Larry.

The stranger glared at him.  “I am a Count,” he remarked at last.

“Well, Sor,” said Larry, “here you only count wun!”

“Hush!” exclaimed a member of the gentleman’s suite, “that is Count Schouvaloff.”

“I’ll forgive him that,” said Larry, “if he won’t shuffle off this seat,” Pointing to my companion.  Larry asked me:  “What is that gintleman’s business?”

“He is a teacher of singing,” I answered.

[Illustration:  LARRY’S LUNCH-STATION.]

“Faith,” said Larry, “I’d like to have him try my voice.  There is something very strange about my vocal chords.  Whenever I sing, the Black Growler stops.  One tourist told me it was a case of professional jealousy, and said the Black Growler was envious of my forte tones.  ‘I have not forty tones,’ I said, ’I’ve only one tone,’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘make a note of it!’”

[Illustration:  THE BISCUIT BASIN.]

Only once in his life has Larry been put to silence.  Two years ago, a gentleman remarked to him:  “Well, Larry, good-by; come and visit me next winter in the East.  In my house you shall have a nice room, and, if you are ill, shall enjoy a doctor’s services free of all expense.”

“Thank you,” said Larry, “plaze give me your card.”

The tourist handed it to him; and Larry, with astonishment and horror, read beneath the gentleman’s name these words:  “Superintendent of the Insane Asylum, Utica, New York.”

Some hours after leaving Larry’s lunch-station, we reached another area of volcanic action.  Our nerves were steadier now.  The close proximity to Hades was less evident; yet here hot mineral water had spread broadcast innumerable little mounds of silica, which look so much like biscuits grouped in a colossal pan that this is called the Biscuit Basin; but they are not the kind that “mother used to make.”  If a tourist asked for bread here, he would receive a stone; since all these so-called biscuits are as hard as flint.  We walked upon their crusts with perfect safety; yet, in so doing, our boots grew warm beneath our feet, for the water in this miniature archipelago is heated to the boiling point.

[Illustration:  A GEYSER POOL.]

“Show me a geyser!” I at last exclaimed impatiently, “I want to see a genuine geyser.”  Accordingly our guide conducted us to what he announced as “The Fountain.”  I looked around me with surprise.  I saw no fountain, but merely a pool of boiling water, from which the light breeze bore away a thin, transparent cloud of steam.  It is true, around this was a pavement as delicately fashioned as any piece of coral ever taken from the sea.  Nevertheless, while I admired that, I could not understand why this comparatively tranquil pool was called a geyser, and frankly said I was disappointed.  But, even as I spoke, I saw to my astonishment the boiling water in this reservoir sink and disappear from view.