There was a pause. Jackeymo was the first to break it. “But, whether here or there, beauty without money is the orange tree without shelter. If a lad could be got cheap, I would hire the land, and trust for the crop to the Madonna.”
“I think I know of such a lad,” said Riccabocca, recovering himself, and with his sardonic smile once more lurking about the corners of his mouth,—“a lad made for us.”
“Diavolo!”
“No, not the Diavolo! Friend, I have this day seen a boy who—refused sixpence!”
“Cosa stupenda!” exclaimed Jackeymo, opening his eyes, and letting fall the watering-pot.
“It is true, my friend.”
“Take him, Padrone, in Heaven’s name, and the fields will grow gold.”
“I will think of it, for it must require management to catch such a boy,” said Riccabocca. “Meanwhile, light a candle in the parlour, and bring from my bedroom that great folio of Machiavelli.”