File:Outing (1885) (14595857847).jpg

Identifier: outing51newy (find matches)
Title: Outing
Year: 1885 (1880s)
Authors:
Subjects: Leisure Sports Travel
Publisher: (New York : Outing Pub. Co.)
Contributing Library: Tisch Library
Digitizing Sponsor: Boston Library Consortium Member Libraries

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g down the stairs, started on his long tramp home. We were of one kind that night in the village club. The traveling bartender did a thriving business, and the air was blue with friendly smoke. It was then we asked the meaning of the rude cross which had marked the place where our car lay. It was then we learned that ten days before a wayfarer had been shot and killed upon that very spot—on a dark night while the rain fell. Bandits? Ah, no, senora, in Spain never! Probably for love! But, we persisted, we left our motorcar upon the road. It was untouched. We have traveled without firearms and with money on us. We had no maps to guide us and little knowledge of the way. Are there no men bad enough to turn bandit even for a night? There was a moments silence as thespokesman turned into Spanish our lament. Some laughed, others shrugged their shoulders, but a tall, bronzed muleteer, smoking upon the balcony, flicked the ashes from his cigarro and sonorously murmured: La Muerte, que mata, no se puede matar.
Text Appearing After Image:
Vending our way through Baza, whose streets remind us of country roads at halt; The Spanish Bandit and the Motor Car 177 Catching the sentence, which was meaningless to us, we repeated it in interrogation, but the spokesman as though the driver had overstepped the bounds of courtesy, led us on to other subjects. For the night we forgot it, but with the first whirr of the engine the next day, it came back to us, beating itself out rhythmically as we journeyed toward the coast. Within a few miles of Murcia, a city with a bath tub, as it had been described in Baza, we met a little girl in Sabbath best leading a small donkey. Fascinated, they stood motionless at our approach, but clumsily in unwieldy shoes, I panting but persistent with the peseta clutched in my hand. Suddenly they dropped beyond the horizon and were lost to view. We never found a trace of them afterward, and, a half hour later, the artist, scouting carefully along, picked me up, lamenting that our kindly intentioned selves could caus

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