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 circumstance—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 Canal, 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 lustily 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!" ejaculated 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.

"Thass-swattit-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!" ejaculated 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 Canal, "I hope this hotel is anchored 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 sassy 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 substitute for horses."

"Perfly-bsoyd!" whistled Whistlebinkie.

"I should think they'd drive whales," said the Unwiseman, "or porpoises. By Jiminy, that would be fun, wouldn't it? Let's see if we can't hire a four whale coach, Mollie, and go driving about the city, or better yet, if they've got them well broken, get a school of porpoises. We might put on our bathing suits and go horseback riding on 'em. I don't take much to the trained duck idea, ducks are so flighty and if they shied at anything they might go flying up in the air and dump us backwards out of our cab into the water."

"We're going to take a gondola ride this morning," said Mollie. "Just you wait and see, Mr. Me."

So the Unwiseman waited and an hour later he and Mollie and Whistlebinkie boarded a gondola in charge of a very handsome and smiling gondolier who said his name was Giuseppe Zocco.

"Soako is a good name for a cab-driver in this town," said the Unwiseman, after he had inspected the gondola and ascertained that it was seaworthy. "I guess I'll talk to him."

"You-do-know-Eye-talian," laughed Whistlebinkie.

"It's one of the languages I do know," returned the Unwiseman. "I buy all my bananas and my peanuts from an Eye-talian at home and for two or three years I have been able to talk to him very easily."

He turned to the gondolier.

"Gooda da morn, Soako," he observed very politely. "You havea da prett-da-boat."

"Si, Signor," returned the smiling gondolier, who was not wholly unfamiliar with English.

"See what?" asked the Unwiseman puzzled, but looking about carefully to see what there was to be seen.

"He says we're at sea," laughed Whistlebinkie.

"Oh—well—that's it, eh?" said the Unwiseman. "I thought he only spoke Eye-talian." And then he addressed the gondolier again. "Da weather's mighta da fine, huh? Not a da rain or da heava da wind, eh? Hopa da babe is vera da well da morn."

"Si, Signor," said Giuseppe.

"Da Venn greata da place. Too mucha da watt for me. Lika da dry land moocha da bett, Giuseppe. Ever sella da banann?" continued the Unwiseman.

"Non, Signor," replied Giuseppe. "No sella da banann."

"Bully da bizz," said the Unwiseman. "Maka da munn hand over da fist. You grinda da org?"

"Huh?" grinned Giuseppe.

"He doesn't understand," said Mollie giggling.

"I asked him if he ever ground a hand-organ," said the Unwiseman. "Perfectly simple question. I aska da questch, Giuseppe, if you ever grinda da org. You know what I mean. Da musica-box, wid da monk for climba da house for catcha da nick."

"What's 'catcha da nick'?" whispered Whistlebinkie.

"To catch the nickels, stoopid," said the Unwiseman; "don't interrupt. No hava da monk, Giuseppe?" he asked.

"Non, Signor," said the gondolier. "No hava da monk."

"Too bad," observed the Unwiseman. "Hand-org not moocha da good without da monk. Da monk maka da laugh and catcha da mun by da cupful. If you ever come to America, Giuseppe, no forgetta da monk with a redda da cap."

With which admonition the Unwiseman turned his attention to other things.

"Is that really Eye-talian?" asked Whistlebinkie.

"Of course it is," said the Unwiseman. "It's the easiest language in the world to pick up and only requires a little practice to make you speak it as if it were your own tongue. I was never conscious that I was learning it in my morning talks with old Gorgorini, the banana man at home. This would be a great place for automobiles, wouldn't it, Mollie?" he laughed in conclusion.

"I don't guesso," said Whistlebinkie.

The gondolier now guided the graceful craft to a flight of marble steps up which Mollie and her friends mounted to the Piazza San Marco.

"This is great," said the Unwiseman as he gazed about him and took in its splendors. "It's a wonder to me that they don't have a lot of places like this on the way over from New York to Liverpool. Crossing the ocean would be some fun if you could step off every hour or two and stretch your legs on something solid, and buy a few tons of tumblers, and feed pigeons. Fact is I think that's the best cure in the world for sea-sickness. If you could run up to a little piazza like this three times a day where there's a nice restaurant waiting for you and no motion to spoil your appetite I wouldn't mind being a sailor for the rest of my life."

The travellers passed through the glorious church of San Marco, inspected the Doge's Palace and then returned to the gondola, upon which they sailed back to their hotel.

"Moocha da thanks, Giuseppe," said the Unwiseman, as he alighted. "Here's a Yankee da quart for you. Save it up and when you come to America as all the Eye-talians seem to be doing these days, it will help start you in business."

And handing the gondolier a quarter the Unwiseman disappeared into the hotel. The next day he entered Mollie's room and asked permission to sit out on her balcony.

"I think I'll try a little fishing this afternoon," he said. "It isn't a bad idea having a hotel right on the water front this way after all. You can sit out on your balcony and drop your line out into the water and just haul them in by the dozen."

But alas for the old gentleman's expectations, he caught never a fish. Whether it was the fault of the bait or not I don't know, but the only things he succeeded in catching were an old barrel-hoop that went floating along the canal from the Fruit Market up the way, and, sad to relate, the straw hat of an American artist on his way home in his gondola from a day's painting out near the Lido. The latter incident caused a great deal of trouble and it took all the persuasion that Mollie's father was capable of to keep the artist from having the Unwiseman arrested. It seems that the artist was very much put out anyhow because, mix his colors as he would, he could not get that peculiarly beautiful blue of the Venetian skies, and the lovely iridescent hues of the Venetian air were too delicate for such a brush as his, and to have his straw hat unceremoniously snatched off his head by an old gentleman two flights up with an ordinary fish hook baited with macaroni in addition to his other troubles was too much for his temper, not a good one at best.

"I am perfectly willing to say that I am sorry," protested the Unwiseman when he was hauled before the angry artist. "I naturally would be sorry. When a man goes fishing for shad and lands nothing but a last year's straw hat, why wouldn't he be sorry?"

"That's a mighty poor apology!" retorted the artist, putting the straw hat on his head.

"Well I'm a poor man," said the Unwiseman. "My expenses have been very heavy of late. What with buying an air-gun to shoot Alps with, and giving a quarter to the Ganderman to help him buy a monkey, I'm reduced from nine-fifty to a trifle under seven dollars."

"You had no business fishing from that balcony!" said the artist angrily.

"I haven't any business anywhere, I've retired," said the Unwiseman. "And I can tell you one thing certain," he added, "if I was going back into business I wouldn't take up fishing for straw hats and barrel-hoops in Venice. There's nothing but to trouble in it."

"I shall lodge a complaint against you in the Lion's Mouth," said the artist, with a slight twinkle in his eye, his good humor returning in the presence of the Unwiseman.

"And I shall fall back on my rights as an American citizen to fish whenever I please from my own balcony with my own bait without interruption from foreign straw hats," said the Unwiseman with dignity.

"What?" cried the artist. "You an American?"

"Certainly," said the Unwiseman. "You didn't take me for an Eye-talian, did you?"

"So am I," returned the artist holding out his hand. "If you'd only told me that in the beginning I never should have complained."

"Don't mention it," said the Unwiseman graciously. "I was afraid you were an Englishman, and then there'd been a war sure, because I'll never give in to an Englishman. If your hat is seriously damaged I'll give you my tarpaulin, seeing that you are an American like myself."

"Not at all," said the artist. "The hat isn't hurt at all and I'm very glad to have met you. If your hook had only caught my eye on my way up the canal I should have turned aside so as not to interfere."

"Well I'm mighty glad it didn't catch your eye," said the Unwiseman. "I could afford to buy you a new straw hat, but I'm afraid a new eye would have busted me."

And there the trouble ended. The artist and the Unwiseman shook hands and parted friends.

"What was that he said about the Lion's Mouth?" asked the Unwiseman after the artist had gone.

"He said he'd lodge a complaint there," said Mollie. "That's the way they used to do here. Those big statues of lions out in front of the Doggies' Palace with their mouths wide open are big boxes where people can mail their complaints to the Government."

"Oh, I see," said the Unwiseman. "And when the Doggies get the complaints they attend to 'em, eh?"

"Yes," said Mollie.

"And who are the Doggies?" asked the Unwiseman. "They don't have dogs instead of pleece over here, do they? I get so mixed up with these Johns, and Bobbies, and Doggies I hardly know where I'm at."

"I don't exactly understand why," said Mollie, "but the people in Venice are ruled by Doggies."

"They're a queer lot from Buckingham Palace, London, down to this old tow-path," said the Unwiseman, "and if I ever get home alive there's no more abroad for your Uncle Me."

On the following day, Mollie's parents having seen all of Venice that their limited time permitted, prepared to start for Genoa, whence the steamer back to New York was to sail. Everything was ready, but the Unwiseman was nowhere to be found. The hotel was searched from top to bottom and not a sign of him. Giuseppe Zocco denied all knowledge of him, and the carpet-bag gave no evidence that he had been in it the night before as was his custom. Train-time was approaching and Mollie was distracted. Even Whistlebinkie whistled under his breath for fear that something had happened to the old gentleman.

"I hope he hasn't fallen overboard!" moaned Mollie, gazing anxiously into the watery depths of the canal.

"Here he comes!" cried Whistlebinkie, jubilantly, and sure enough down the canal seated on a small raft and paddling his way cautiously along with his hands came the Unwiseman, singing the popular Italian ballad "Margherita" at the top of his lungs.

"Gander ahoy!" he cried, as he neared the hotel steps. "Sheer off there, Captain, and let me into Port."

The gondolier made room for him and the Unwiseman alighted.

"Where have you been?" asked Mollie, throwing her arms about his neck.

"Up the canal a little way," he answered unconcernedly. "I wanted to mail a letter to the Doggie in the Lion's Mouth."

"What about?" asked Mollie.

"Watertown, otherwise Venice," said the Unwiseman. "I had some suggestions for its improvement and I didn't want to go way without making them. There's a copy of my letter if you want to see it," he added, handing Mollie a piece of paper upon which he had written as follows:

29 Grand Canal St., Venice, It.

Ancient & Honorable Bow-wows:

I have enjoyed my visit to your beautiful but wet old town very much and would respectfully advise you that there are several things you can do to keep it unspiled. These are as follows to wit viz:

I. Bale it out once in a while and see that the barrel hoops in your Grand Canal are sifted out of it. They're a mighty poor stubstishoot for shad.

II. Get a few trained whales in commission so that when a feller wants to go driving he won't have to go paddling.

III. Stock your streets with trout, or flounders, or perch or even sardines in order that us Americans who feel like fishing won't have to be satisfied with a poor quality of straw hat.

IV. During the fishing season compel artists returning from their work to wear beaver hats or something else that a fish-hook baited with macaroni won't catch into thus making a lot of trouble.

V. Get together on your language. I speak the very best variety of banana-stand Italian and twenty-three out of twenty-four people to which I have made remarks in it have not been able to grasp my meaning.

VI. Pigeons are very nice to have but they grow monotonous. Would suggest a half dozen first class American hens as an ornament to your piazza.

VII. Stop calling yourself Doggies. It makes people laugh.

With kind regards to the various Mrs. Ds, believe me to be with mucho da respecto,

Yoursa da trool,
Da Unadawisamann.

P.S. If you ever go sailing abroad in your old town point her nose towards my country. We'll all be glad to see you over there and can supply you with all the water you need.

Y da T,
Mister Me.

It was with these recommendations to the Doges that the Unwiseman left Venice. Whether they were ever received or not I have never heard, but if they were I am quite sure they made the "Doggies" yelp with delight.