“Well, you are an ignorant young person,” declared Mr. Fairfield. “An Italian stiletto is a small dagger or poniard.”
“Poniard! that’s it!” exclaimed Patty. “No well-conducted brigand would carry anything but a poniard. Do you suppose there are many on the train, father?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. But we’ll go to dinner now, and if there are any we’ll scrape acquaintance with them.”
So to the dining-car they went, and Patty cast discreet but curious glances in at the doors of the other compartments as she passed them.
She saw no brigands, and among the passengers were not many Italians. They all seemed to be people of their own stamp, probably travelling on the same kind of a trip.
The dining-car was comfortable and well-lighted. The tables on one side held four people, and on the other side, each was arranged for two. The Fairfields sat at a quartette table, and as no one occupied the fourth seat, they were pleasantly by themselves again.
It was Patty’s first introduction to Italian cookery, and she was much interested in the strange dishes.
The spaghetti, though very good, was served in such large quantities that she was amazed.
“Does anyone ever eat a whole portion?” she said.
But she noticed that many of the diners did do so, and indeed she made large inroads on her own share.