The lad had stepped across the wharf and was gazing sadly down into the water. Jim touched his shoulder.
"Don't you feel well, son?"
The kindly words had a surprising effect—the lad burst into tears. Jim tried to soothe him.
"There, there! It can't be so bad as all that! Tell me about it."
Little by little the boy's story came out. He was a Sicilian from a little village (un villaggio) not far from Messina. His name was Filippo Canamelli. His father was a mason (un muratore). Filippo and his older brother Frank had decided to seek their fortunes in America. Frank had gone over the year before, promising to send money back to pay for Filippo's passage. He had done so that winter, in Febbrajo. Filippo had sailed from Naples the next month, and had landed in New York in April. There he chanced upon a friend with whom his brother had left word for him to come to a certain address in Boston. But in that city he had lost all track of Frank. Searching aimlessly for him, he had drifted down to Stonington and had gone to work in the granite quarries. But he found the labor too hard and he was desperately homesick. He had given up his job the day before. What he should do and where he should go next he did not know. He talked rapidly between his sobs, while Jim listened.
When he had finished, Spurling stepped across the wharf to his waiting friends. Very briefly he rehearsed the Italian's story.
"Boys," he concluded, "what do you say to asking him to come down with us to Tarpaulin? I believe he's a clean, straight little fellow, and he can more than make up for his board by cooking and doing odd jobs. We can afford to pay him something to boot."
Before either Budge or Throppy had a chance to express an opinion Percy spoke out decidedly:
"Take that little Dago with us? I say no. You can't trust his kind. I know 'em. They're a thieving, treacherous lot, smooth to your face, but ready to stab you the minute your back's turned. I'll bet you a five-dollar bill he's got a knife hid somewhere about him. He might take a notion some night to cut all our throats."
"Whittington," said Spurling, bluntly, "under the circumstances it might be better taste for you not to speak until you've heard from the rest of us. My throat's worth just as much to me as yours is to you, and I don't feel I'd be running any great risk by inviting that boy to come along with us."