A trip to Liberia, a dash down into Mexico,
and a desert jaunt in Australia, had not satisfied his craving for
adventure. With the results of two years of professional lectures,
he was now imbibing continental experiences, and plotting a bicycle
"scientific tour of the world." Hard-headed, fearless, devoted,
and sincere, he was a mad theorist in all his mental processes,
and had tried, proved, and rejected free love, anarchy, Christian
science, and a dozen other feverish fads, which for a time jangled
his mental bells out of tune. A cranky tracing of the lost Ten
Tribes of Israel down to the genial scalpers of the American plains
had thrown him across the renowned Professor Andrew Fraser, who
had, on his part, located these same long mourned Hebrews in Thibet,
ignoring the fact that they are really dispersed in the United
States of America as "eaters of other men's hard-made 'honey'" in
the "drygoods," clothing, and "shent per shent" line. For, a glance
at the signs on Broadway will prove to any one that the "lost" have
been found in Gotham.
Smoking his corncob pipe the Professor paced his rooms at the Royal
Victoria, and mentally consigned Prince Djiddin and his indefatigable
Moonshee to Eblis, the Inferno, Sheol, or some other ardent corner
of Limbo. "How long will these two yellow fellows keep poor old
Fraser enchanted?" mused the disgruntled American, mindful of his
hotel bill running on.
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