The Argosy — page 228: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

214 Letters from Majorca. else’s two, and appropriated a whole chicken to himself. Then, like Oliver, he asked for more, but I am glad to tell you that he didn’t get it; for which denial he revenged himself upon the wine. An old nian came up leading a horse, and seemed much interested in our appearance and condition. Probably he thought we all felt very happy and comfortable. We should, indeed, have been in an earthly paradise if only we had had blue skies and sunshine. James offered the old man some refreshment: half a chicken, a few boiled eggs, and a cup of sparkling wine. Sparkling is employed as a metaphor, you understand. His eyes sparkled—this time the word is not a metaphor—but he would not embrace the golden opportunity. We wondered. He was evidently hungry, yet refused the tempting delicacies. It was certainly not shyness, for he made no scruple of looking on and assisting at our festive gathering. _ The mule boy solved the mystery. James was offering the food with his left hand, and the Mallorquins have a superstition. They will take nothing given with the left hand, these remote peasants of the country. It would bring them ill-luck. Upon which James transferred the peace offering to the right hand, and it was at once gratefully accepted and disposed of. I think the old man must have been unaccustomed to wine, for after this he became eccentric in his actions. Instead of continuing his way uphill to the unknown land whither he was bound, he finished his conversation with the mule boy, and then began to retrace his steps. I am persuaded he was under the impression that he was still ascending. However, it was his affair, not ours, and we left him to his own devices. One thing is certain: we sent him on his way rejoicing and comforted. All this time we were wrapped in cloud, blinded by vapour, saturated by mist. Rheumatic pains shot about us like flashes of lightning. We felt like Rip Van Winkle when he awoke after his hundred years’ sleep. ‘Where is the summit of the Puig Major?” I asked, as we all made a move, and our joints began to grate like rusted locks, and creak like five-barred gates. ‘Up there,” replied A., pointing into the clouds. ‘Imagine that you see the dim outline of'a peak. That’s it. Iam quite ready to accompany you, if you like to venture. It would take us another ‘ hour.” We all shuddered at such a death-blow proposition. James hastily restored the paniers to their place, The mule felt its burden had been considerably lightened. We left the fragments for any birds of prey that might haunt this mist-wreathed mountain, and began to descend. I stepped out boldly, gracefully holding up B.’s friendly ulster. Imagine me if you can. I feel that I am also exposing myself to your ridicule, but as a faithful chronicler I must be exact in my small facts. comicbooks.com