"You should be at work, boy, not betting on the race. You earn your living with your hands; that is better than Cavalli's way; he earns his with his tongue. I am nearly twice your age and have rowed many times, but I have never yet wagered as much as a soldo on any race of mine. Give your money to the good mother, and let her take it to the Pietà and get your boat. You will need it before the month is out, she tells me."
The boy hung his head and did not answer.
"Why do you think I shall lose? Have I not won four already?"
"Yes, but every year the signore gets older; you are not so strong as you were. And then, no man has won five races in fifty years. It is the Nicolletti's year to win, Cavalli says."
A cheer here went up from the outside of the crowd. Some of the Nicolletti who had followed the boy had been listening.
"Cavalli should read his history better. It is not fifty years, but sixty. But we Italians work for ourselves now, and are free. That counts for something."
"Francesco works, Signore Zanaletto. He has arms like my leg."
"Yes, and for that reason you think him the stronger?"
"I did when Cavalli talked to me. Now I am in doubt."
The cheer that answered this reply came from some Castellani standing in the door of the caffè. When the cheering slackened a man on the outside of the crowd called out: