We rattled into a cutting, the sides of which were decorated with posters: "Good Healt at the England," "Good Luck at Tommy," and drew up in a flag-festooned station, on the platform of which was a deputation of smiling signorinas who presented the Atkinses with postcards, fruit and cigarettes, and ourselves with flowers.
"Very bon—eh, what?" said the Babe as the train resumed its rumblings. "All the same I wish we could thank them prettily and tell them how pleased we are we've come. Does anybody handle the patter?"
Albert Edward thought he did. "Used to swot up a lot of Italian literature when I was a lad; technical military stuff about the divisions of Gaul by one J. Cæsar."
"Too technical for everyday use," I objected. "A person called D'Annunzio is their best seller now, I believe."
"Somebody'd better hop off the bus at the next stop and buy a book of the words," said the Babe.
At the next halt I dodged the deputation and purchased a phrase-book with a Union Jack on the cover, entitled The English Soldier in Italy, published in Milan.
Among military terms, grouped under the heading of "The Worldly War," a garetta (sentry-box) is defined as "a watchbox," and the machine-gunner will be surprised to find himself described as "a grapeshot-man." It has also short conversations for current use.
"Have you of any English papers?"
"Yes, sir, there's The Times and Tit-Bits."
(Is it possible that the land of Virgil, of Horace and Dante knows not The Daily Mail?)