"Fetch! fetch!" said Signora Scafetti, and shook him roughly by the arm.
"Eustazio is well where he is."
"Fetch! fetch!" Signora Scafetti screamed, and let loose a flood of Italian, most of which, I am glad to say, I could not follow. I glanced up nervously at the girls' window, but they hardly know as much as I do, and I am thankful to say that none of us caught one word of Gennaro's answer.
The two yelled and shouted at each other for quite ten minutes, at the end of which Gennaro rushed back to his charcoal-bin and Signora Scafetti burst into tears, as well she might, for she greatly valued her English guests.
"He says," she sobbed, "that Signer Eustace is well where he is, and that he will not fetch him. I can do no more."
But I could, for, in my stupid British way, I have got some insight into the Italian character. I followed Mr. Gennaro to his place of repose, and found him wriggling down on to a dirty sack.
"I wish you to fetch Signor Eustace to me," I began.
He hurled at me an unintelligible reply.
"If you fetch him, I will give you this." And out of my pocket I took a new ten lira note.
This time he did not answer.