294 To the River Plate and Back 



and crawling vermin. Speaking of bichos I am reminded 

 of a tale told me a number of years ago by the wife of a 

 former American Consul in Buenos Aires, who related 

 with laughter her experiences at a somewhat primitive 

 summer-resort, since grown fine and fashionable, at 

 which she and her husband, in its early days, once 

 passed their vacation in the hot months. Flies were 

 exceedingly numerous, and, as she sat down at table, 

 the waiter placed before her a plate of soup in which 

 she counted no less than half a dozen of the odious 

 things. She was properly indignant, and ordered 

 him to bring her another plate of soup without such 

 garniture. He removed the plate and stationing 

 himself where he evidently thought she could not 

 see him, with his back turned towards her, picked the 

 flies out of the soup with his greasy fingers, and then 

 advancing with an air of triumph on his face, smilingly 

 set the plate down again before her, exclaiming as he 

 straightened himself up: 'Sopa sin bichos!' Soup 

 without bugs! 



The steamer Vestris was to make her maiden voyage 

 from Buenos Aires to New York, sailing on the morning 

 of October 26th. I had engaged passage upon her, and 

 accordingly on the evening before sailing we went to the 

 dock, hunted up the chief steward, and arranged to have 

 our effects put into our staterooms and the doors 

 locked, so that at the time of departure in the morning 

 we would not be annoyed by petty cares and anxieties. 

 The last evening was spent at the hotel in the society 

 of friends, who came one after the other to wish us a 

 safe and prosperous voyage. 



In the morning we were off betimes, and, as we rode 

 down the Avenida de Mayo, a sturdy fellow, springing 

 out from the sidewalk, began to race alongside of the 



