CHAPTER IV.
THE WORD THAT SETTLED JOE BARNES.
From London to Paris is no distance at all. The most delicate
invalid can scarcely be fatigued by so slight a journey.
So you say, who go comfortably for a pleasure trip. You start at a
reasonably early hour in the morning, and arrive at your destination
in time for dinner. A few of you, no doubt, may dread that short hour
and a half spent on the Channel. But even its horrors are mitigated
by large steamers and kind and attentive attendants, and as for the
rest of the journey, it is nothing, not worth mentioning in these
days of rushing over the world.
Yes, the power of steam has brought the gay French capital thus
near. But if you had to trudge the whole weary way on foot, you would
still find that there were a vast number of miles between you and
Paris. That these miles were apt to stretch themselves interminably,
and that your feet were inclined to ache terribly; still more would
you feel the length of the way and the vast distance of the road, if
the journey had to be made in winter. Then the shortness of the days,
the length of the nights, the great cold, the bitter winds, would all
add to the horrors of this so-called simple journey.
This four little pilgrims, going bravely onward, experienced.
Toby, whose spirits rather sank from the moment Joe Barnes took the
management of affairs, had the further misfortune of running a thorn
into his foot; and though the very Joe whom he disliked was able to
extract it, still for a day or two the poor dog was lame.
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