So they rolled along the coast for a couple of hours in a quaint, old-fashioned railway carriage, and were then deposited upon the platform of the little station at Giardini.

“I’m afraid there has been a mistake,” said the little man, gazing around him anxiously.  “There’s no town here, and I told the guard to put us off at Taormina—­not this forlorn place.”

Just then Beth discovered a line of carriages drawn up back of the station.  The drivers were mostly asleep inside them, although several stood in a group arguing in fluent Italian the grave question as to whether Signora Gani’s cow had a black patch over its left shoulder, or not.

Some of the carriages bore signs:  “Hotel Timeo;” “Grand Hotel San Domenico;” “Hotel Castello-a-Mare;” “Grand Hotel Metropole,” and so forth.  In that of the Castello-a-Mare the man was awakening and rubbing his eyes.  Uncle John said to him: 

“Good morning.  Had a nice rest?”

“I thank you, signore, I am well refreshed,” was the reply.

“By the way, can you tell us where the town of Taormina is?  I hate to trouble you; but we’d like to know.”

The man waved an arm upward, and following the motion with their eyes they saw a line of precipitous cliffs that seemed impossible to scale.

“Do you desire to go to the Grand Hotel Castello-a-Mare?” enquired the driver, politely.

“Is it in Taormina?”

“Most certainly, signore.”

“And you will take us?”

“With pleasure, signore.”

“Oh; I didn’t know.  I supposed you were going to sleep again.”

The man looked at him reproachfully.

“It is my business, signore.  I am very attentive to my duties.  If you permit me to drive you to our splendide—­our magnifico hotel—­you will confer a favor.”

“How about the baggage?”

“The trunks, signor, we will send for later.  There is really no hurry about them.  The small baggage will accompany us.  You will remark how excellent is my English.  I am Frascatti Vietri; perhaps you have heard of me in America?”

“If I have it has escaped my memory,” said Uncle John, gravely.

“Have you been to America?” asked Beth.

“Surely, signorina.  I lived in Chicago, which, as you are aware, is America.  My uncle had a fruit shop in South Water, a via which is Chicago.  Is it not so?  You will find few in Taormina who can the English speak, and none at all who can so perfectly speak it as Frascatti Vietri.”

“You are wonderful,” said Patsy, delighted with him.  But Uncle John grew impatient to be off.

“I hate to interrupt you, Mr. Vietri,” he hinted; “but if you can spare the time we may as well make a start.”

The driver consented.  He gracefully swung the suit-cases and travelling bags to the top of the vehicle and held the door open while his fares entered.  Then he mounted to his seat, took the reins, and spoke to the horses.  Some of the other drivers nodded at him cheerfully, but more as if they were sorry he must exert himself than with any resentment at his success in getting the only tourists who had alighted from the train.