But it was in vain that he stormed, and Varvy and I searched; the
boots were gone.
Were it not for this mysterious occurrence, and Varvy's detestable
liquors, I would here recommend all travellers going round by the
beach to Partoowye to stop at the Rock, and patronize the old
gentleman - the more especially as he entertains gratis.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
OUR RECEPTION IN PARTOOWYE
UPON starting, at last, I flung away my sandals - by this time quite
worn out - with the view of keeping company with the doctor, now
forced to go barefooted. Recovering his spirits in good time, he
protested that boots were a bore after all, and going without them
decidedly manly.
This was said, be it observed, while strolling along over a soft
carpet of grass; a little moist, even at midday, from the shade of
the wood through which we were passing.
Emerging from this we entered upon a blank, sandy tract, upon which
the sun's rays fairly flashed; making the loose gravel under foot
well nigh as hot as the floor of an oven. Such yelling and leaping as
there was in getting over this ground would he hard to surpass. We
could not have crossed at all - until toward sunset - had it not been
for a few small, wiry bushes growing here and there, into which we
every now and then thrust our feet to cool. There was no little
judgment necessary in selecting your bush; for if not chosen
judiciously, the chances were that, on springing forward again, and
finding the next bush so far off that an intermediate cooling was
indispensable, you would have to run hack to your old place again.
Safely passing the Sahara, or Fiery Desert, we soothed our
half-blistered feet by a pleasant walk through a meadow of long
grass, which soon brought us in sight of a few straggling houses,
sheltered by a grove on the outskirts of the village of Partoowye.
My comrade was for entering the first one we came to; but, on drawing
near, they had so much of an air of pretension, at least for native
dwellings, that I hesitated; thinking they might be the residences of
the higher chiefs, from whom no very extravagant welcome was to be
anticipated.
While standing irresolute, a voice from the nearest house hailed us:
"Aramai! aramai, karhowree!" (Come in! come in, strangers!)
We at once entered, and were warmly greeted. The master of the house
was an aristocratic-looking islander, dressed in loose linen drawers,
a fine white shirt, and a sash of red silk tied about the waist,
after the fashion of the Spaniards in Chili. He came up to us with a
free, frank air, and, striking his chest with his hand, introduced
himself as Ereemear Po-Po; or, to render the Christian name back again
into English - Jeremiah Po-Po.
