Uncle John promptly booked places.
The intervening day was spent in packing and preparing for the journey,
and like all travellers the girls were full of eager excitement at the
prospect of seeing something new.
"I'm told Sicily is an island," grumbled Uncle John. "Here we are, on a
trip to Eu-rope, and emigrating to an island the first thing we do."
"Sicily is Europe, all right, Uncle," answered Patsy. "At least, it
isn't Asia or Africa."
That assertion seemed to console him a little, and he grew cheerful
again.
The evening was beautiful as they embarked, but soon after leaving the
bay the little, tub-shaped steamer began to tumble and toss vigorously,
so that all the passengers aboard speedily sought their berths.
Uncle John found himself in a stuffy little cabin that smelled of tar
and various other flavors that were too mixed to be recognizable. As a
result he passed one of the most miserable nights of his life.
Toward morning he rolled out and dressed himself, preferring the deck to
his bed, and the first breath of salt air did much to restore him. Day
was just breaking, and to the right he could see a tongue of fire
flaming against the dark sky.
"What is that, sir?" he enquired of an officer who passed.
"That is Stromboli, signor, the great volcano of Lipari. It is always in
eruption.
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