"So this is the Hotel de Bugs," said Jonathan Tarbox, as, carpet-bag in hand, he approached, with long strides, the well-known Hotel des Bergues in Geneva. "It looks like a nice sort of a hotel. I wonder if Frank and that rascally humbug are stoppin' here. I'd give twenty-five cents to see that boy's face. Strange what a fancy I've took to him. He's a reg'lar gentleman; as quick and sharp as a steel-trap."

Mr. Tarbox had walked from the railway station. He was naturally economical, and, having all his life been accustomed to walk, thought it a waste and extravagance to take a carriage. He had inquired his way by simply pronouncing the name of the hotel as above. The similarity in sound was sufficient to insure a correction.

He entered the hotel and found the landlord.

"I say, captain, I want to put up here to-night."

"Will monsieur have a room?" asked the host, politely.

"If you mean me, that's what I want; but I ain't a monseer at all. I'm a Yankee."

"Monsieur Yang-kee?" said the landlord, a little puzzled.

"Look here, captain, I ain't a monseer—I don't eat frogs. Do I look like it. No, I'm a straight-down, dyed-in-the-wool Yankee, from Squashboro', State o' Maine."

"Will you have a room?" asked the landlord, avoiding the word monsieur, which he perceived the other disclaimed, for some reason which he could not very well comprehend.

"Yes, I will, if I can get one cheap. I don't want none of your big apartments, that cost like blazes. I want a little room, with a bed in it, and a chair."

"We have petits apartements—very small price."

"Give me one, then. Oh, hold on; is there a boy named Frank Hunter stoppin' here, with a man named Sharpley?"

"Non, monsieur. He has been here, but he is gone."

"Gone? When did he go?"

"Three days ago."

"Three days!" repeated Mr. Tarbox, thoughtfully. "He didn't stay long, then?"

"Only one night."

"Seems to me he was in a hurry. Isn't there nothin' worth seein' round here?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur," said the landlord, with animation. "Geneve is a very interesting city. Would you not like to see how they make the watches, and the boxes of musique? There are many places here that strangers do visit. There is the cathedral and the Musee. Monsieur should stay here one—two weeks."

"And put up at your tavern?"

"Eh?"

"And stop up at your hotel?"

"Certainement, monsieur."

"That's what I thought. Anyhow, I'll stay here till to-morrow. But about this old rascal—"

"Monsieur?"

"I mean this Sharpley, and the boy—where did they go?"

"I know not, monsieur. They went to see the mountains."

"Well, captain, as mountains in this neighborhood are about as thick as huckleberry bushes in a pastur', I ain't none the wiser for that. Couldn't you tell me a little plainer?"

But this the landlord, or captain, as Mr. Tarbox insisted upon calling him, was unable to do. As there was nothing else to be done, our Yankee friend selected a room on the top floor, which, by reason of its elevation, he was enabled to get for two francs a day.

In European hotels the rooms become cheaper the higher up they are, and thus various prices are paid at the same hotel. It is not necessarily expensive, therefore, sojourning at a first-class hotel abroad; and, indeed, it is better than to take lower rooms in an inferior inn, supposing the traveler's means to be limited.

"Well," said Mr. Tarbox, looking about him, when he was fairly installed in his room, "my journey ain't going to cost me so much, after all. I come third class to Geneva for less'n ten dollars, and I can live here pretty cheap. But that ain't the question. Where-abouts among these hills is Frank? That's what I'd like to know. I wonder what that step-father of his meant by his talk about accidents? If anything happens to Frank, and I find it out, I'll stir 'em up, as sure as my name's Jonathan Tarbox. But I'm getting hungry; I'll go down and see what kind of fodder they can give me. I guess I'd better clean up first, for I'm as dirty as ef I'd been out in the field plowin'."

Mr. Tarbox made a satisfactory supper at moderate expense. He didn't go to the table d'hÔte, for, as he said, "They bring you a mouthful of this, and a mouthful of that, and when you're through ten or eleven courses, you have to pay a dollar, more or less, and are as hungry as when you began. I'd rather order something a la carte, as they call it, though what it has to do with a cart is more than I can tell, and then I can get enough, and don't have so much to pay neither."

Mr. Tarbox made further inquiries the next day, but could not ascertain definitely in what direction the travelers had gone. There were several possible routes, and they were as likely to have gone by one as by another. Under the circumstances it seemed to him that it was better to remain where he was. There was a chance of the two returning by way of Geneva, and they would be likely to come to the same hotel; while if he started off in one direction, it would very probably turn out that they had gone by another. One circumstance certainly favored his decision—it was cheaper remaining in Geneva than in journeying off at random in search of Frank, and Mr. Tarbox, therefore, decided to patronize the Hotel des Bergues for a short time at least, trying, meanwhile, to get some clew to the whereabouts of the travelers. He improved the time by visiting the objects of interest in Geneva, bewildering the natives by his singular remarks, and amusing strangers with whom he came in contact. Some were disposed to regard him as a specimen of the average American. Indeed, he bore a striking resemblance to the typical American introduced by our English friends in their books of travel and in their dramatic productions.

He did indeed possess some national characteristics. He was independent, fearless, self-reliant, hating injustice and oppression, but he was without the polish, or culture, or refinement which are to be found in the traveling Americans quite as commonly as in the traveling Englishman or German. He is presented here as a type of a class which does exist, but not as an average American.

It struck Mr. Tarbox that he might obtain some information of those whom he sought by inquiring of the travelers who came daily to the hotel, whether they had met with such a party. No diffidence held him back from questioning closely all who came.

Some treated him with hauteur, and tried to abash him by impressing him with the unwarrantable liberty he was taking in intruding himself upon their notice.

In general, however, these were snobs, of some wealth, but doubtful social position, who felt it necessary to assert themselves upon all occasions.

But Mr. Tarbox was not one to be daunted by coldness, or abashed by a repellant manner. He persisted in his questions until he learned what he wanted. But his questions were without a satisfactory answer until one day he saw a gentleman and his son, whom by their appearance he took to be fellow-countrymen. They were, in fact, Henry Abercrombie and his father, fresh from the scene of the accident.

Mr. Tarbox introduced himself and propounded his question.

Father and son exchanged a look of sadness.

"He means poor Frank, father," said Henry.

"Poor Frank!" repeated Mr. Tarbox, eagerly. "What makes you say that?"

"Were you a friend of the boy?" asked Mr. Abercrombie.

"Yes, and I am still. He's a tip-top fellow, Frank is."

"I am sorry, then, to be the bearer of sad tidings."

"What do you mean?" asked Jonathan, quickly. "Don't say anything has happened to the boy."

"But there has. He fell over a cliff, and though his body has not been found, he was probably killed instantly."

"Who was with him when he fell?" asked Mr. Tarbox, excited.

"His guardian, Mr. Sharpley. The two had wandered off by themselves, without a guide. Frank approached too near the edge of the cliff, lost his balance, and fell."

"That confounded skunk pushed him over!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, in high excitement.

"You don't mean Colonel Sharpley?" exclaimed Mr. Abercrombie, in surprise.

"Yes, I do. I followed them from Paris, because I was afraid of it."

"But it is incredible. I assure you Colonel Sharpley showed great sorrow for the accident."

"Then he's a hypocrite! If you want proof of what I say, just read that letter."