Mollie and the Unwiseman Abroad Part 22

"And if I imported a hundred of them after I found that Wigglethorpe was successful," the Unwiseman continued, very wisely ignoring Whistlebinkie's sarcasm, "that would be--hum--ha----"

"Three hundred dollars a week," prompted Mollie.

"Exactly," said the Unwiseman, "which in a year would amount to--ahem--three times three hundred and sixty-five is nine, twice nine is----"

"It comes to $15,600 a year," said Mollie.

"Right to a penny," said the Unwiseman. "I was figuring it out by the day. Fifteen thousand six hundred dollars a year is a big sum of money and reckoned in eclairs at fifty eclairs for a dollar is--er--is--well you couldn't eat 'em if you tried, there'd be so many."

"Seven hundred and eighty thousand eclairs," said Mollie.

"That's what I said," said the Unwiseman. "You just couldn't eat 'em, but you could sell 'em, so really you'd have two businesses right away, shammys and eclaires."

"Mitey-big-biziness," hissed Whistlebinkie.

"Yes," said the Unwiseman, "I think I'll suggest it to my burgular when I get home. It seems to me to be more honorable then burguling and it's just possible that after a summer spent in the uplifting company of my kitchen stove and having got used to the pleasant conversation of my leak, and seen how peaceful it is to just spend your days exercising a sweet gentle umbrella like mine, he'll want to reform and go into something else that he can do in the day-time."

By this time the little party had reached the hotel, and Mollie's father was delighted to hear of the Unwiseman's proposition. It was an entirely new idea, he said, although he was doubtful if it was a good business for a burgular.

"People might not be willing to trust him with their silver," he said.

"Very well then," said the Unwiseman. "Let him begin on front door k.n.o.bs and parlor floors. He's not likely to run away with those."

The next day the travellers left Switzerland and when I next caught sight of them they had arrived at Venice.

XII.

VENICE

It was late at night when Mollie and her friends arrived at Venice and the Unwiseman, sleeping peacefully as he was in the cavernous depths of his carpet-bag, did not get his first glimpse of the lovely city of the waters until he waked up the next morning. Unfortunately--or possibly it was a fortunate circ.u.mstance--the old gentleman had heard of Venice only in a very vague way before, and had no more idea of its peculiarities than he had of those of Waycross Junction, Georgia, or any other place he had never seen. Consequently his first sight of Venice filled him with a tremendous deal of excitement. Emerging from his carpet-bag in the cloak-room of the hotel he walked out upon the front steps of the building which descended into the Grand Ca.n.a.l, the broad waterway that runs its serpentine length through this historic city of the Adriatic.

"'Gee Whittaker!'" he cried, as the great avenue of water met his gaze.

"There's been a flood! Hi there--inside--the water main has busted, and the whole town's afloat. Wake up everybody and save yourselves!"

He turned and rushed madly up the hotel stairs to the floor upon which his friends' rooms were located, calling l.u.s.tily all the way:

"Get up everybody--the reservoy's busted; the dam's loose. To the boats!

Mollie--Whistlebinkie--Mister and Mrs. Mollie--get up or you'll be washed away--the whole place is flooded. You haven't a minute to spare."

"What's the matter, Mr. Me?" asked Mollie, opening her door as she recognized the Unwiseman's voice out in the hallway. "What are you scaring everybody to death for?"

"Get out your life preservers--quick before it is too late," gasped the Unwiseman. "There's a tidal wave galloping up and down the street, and we'll be drowned. To the roof! All hands to starboard and man the boats."

"What _are_ you talking about?" said Mollie.

"Look out your front window if you don't believe me," panted the Unwiseman. "The whole place is chuck full of water--couldn't bail it out in a week----"

"Oh," laughed Mollie, as she realized what it was that had so excited her friend. "Is that all?"

"All!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Unwiseman, his eyebrows lifting higher with astonishment. "Isn't it enough? What do you want, the whole Atlantic Ocean sitting on your front stoop?"

"Why--" began Mollie, "this is Venice----"

"Looks like Watertown," interrupted the Unwiseman.

"Tha.s.s-swatt.i.t-izz," whistled Whistlebinkie. "Venice is a water town.

It's built on it."

"Built on it?" queried the Unwiseman looking scornfully at Whistlebinkie as much as to say you can't fool me quite so easily as that. "Built on water?" he repeated.

"Exactly," said Mollie. "Didn't you know that, Mr. Me? Venice is built right out on the sea."

"Well of all queer things!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Unwiseman, so surprised that he plumped down on the floor and sat there gazing wonderingly up at Mollie. "A whole city built on the sea! What's the matter, wasn't there land enough?"

"Oh yes, I guess there was plenty of land," said Mollie, "but maybe somebody else owned it. Anyhow the Venetians came out here where there were a lot of little islands to begin with and drove piles into the water and built their city on them."

"Well that beats me," said the Unwiseman, shaking his head in bewilderment. "I've heard of fellows building up big copperations on water, but never a city. How do they keep the water out of their cellars?"

"They don't," said Mollie.

"Maybe they build their cellars on the roof," suggested Whistlebinkie.

"Well," said the Unwiseman, rising from the floor and walking to the front window and gazing out at the Grand Ca.n.a.l, "I hope this hotel is anch.o.r.ed good and fast. I don't mind going to sea on a big boat that's built for it, but I draw the line at sailin' all around creation in a hotel."

The droll little old gentleman poised himself on one toe and stretched out his arms. "There don't seem to be much motion, does there," he remarked.

"There isn't any at all," said Mollie. "It's perfectly still."

"I guess it's because it's a clam day," observed the Unwiseman uneasily.

"I hope it'll stay clam while we're here. I'd hate to be caught out in movey weather like they had on that sa.s.sy little British Channel. This hotel would flop about fearfully and _I_ believe it would sink if somebody carelessly left a window open, to say nothing of its falling over backward and letting the water in the back door."

"Papa says it's perfectly safe," said Mollie. "The place has been here more'n a thousand years and it hasn't sunk yet."

"All right," said the Unwiseman. "If your father says that I'm satisfied because he most generally knows what he's talking about, but all the same I think we should ought to have brought a couple o' row boats and a lot of life preservers along. I don't believe in taking any chances.

What do the cab-horses do here, swim?"

"No," said Mollie. "There aren't any horses in Venice. They have gondolas."

"Gondolas?" repeated the Unwiseman. "What are gondolas, trained ducks?

Don't think much o' ducks as a subst.i.tute for horses."

"Perfly-bsoyd!" whistled Whistlebinkie.

"I should think they'd drive whales," said the Unwiseman, "or porpoises.