ite to what we should see
of pure and simple naughtiness. But alack and alas for our blasted
hopes and the human weakness that had been worked on by the adroit
press agent! The show was a "fake:" there was nothing naughty about
it--and very little that was nice. No refrigerating plant ever
contained a freezing room so dank, cold and gloomy as that theatre!
After the first act, the ladies--Heaven help them!--put on their furs;
in the second, an odd man or two began to sneak out, and by the time
the curtain rose on the last act there was hardly a soul in the house!
The weary "Corkonians" wended their way to the hotels in disconsolate
groups, and the simple but convincing words, "Stung again!" hung on
every lip as we toddled up the dark stairs to our beds, wiser but
sadder men. There may be allurements in Andalusian dancing--but if
there are, we certainly did not see them.

In the cold, gray dawn of the next morning we gathered up our
belongings, and after an early breakfast, reinforced by another
"management" basket lunch, we made for the train. An all-day's ride to
Granada was before us. You see, you couldn't get anything to eat at a
Spanish station but garlic, onions and chocolate, so we had to prepare
for the worst. "The worst" came all right, in the sanitary
arrangements at the stations (for there were none on the trains), but
we justly blamed all our troubles on Spain and not on the management of
the trip. It all passed, however, like a summer cloud when we landed
in time for a late dinner at Granada. Dinner over we went out and saw
some of the gay life of this famous city. The local color was
there--in fact, it was highly colored; and as for "atmosphere," why,
the air was full of it! The ladies squirmed a little, but the men
stood nobly by their guns till the last candle had been snuffed out;
and so we went to bed, after arranging to give a full day to the
Alhambra next morning, and slept the sleep of the just.

GRANADA

Morning came as usual with the rising sun, and we set out, twenty-five
to a guide. I transmitted Mark Twain's name of "Billfinger" to our
man, and he was very much pleased by this notable mark of distinction;
in fact, he felt that he had to speak and act up to his title; but his
voice gave out in the second round, and he had to whisper his
historical jokes and quips about the harems to a "Cork" from Chicago,
who repeated them in a louder tone to the audience. This man was a
human