"Your Luigi is a coward. He will not bet because he knows he'll lose."
At this a big stevedore from the salt warehouse lunged toward Luigi and threw a silver lira on his table.
"Match that for Francesco!" he cried.
Luigi pushed it back.
"When I bet it will be with my equal," he said, icily.
A laugh of derision followed, in which Marco joined. The boy evidently thought the champion was afraid to risk his own money and make his word good. Boys of twenty often have such standards.
"Bet with Francesco, then, Signore Zanaletto," cried the stevedore. "He is twice your equal."
"Yes, bring him here," answered Luigi, quietly.
Half a dozen men, led by the big stevedore, made a rush for the Caffè Beneto. While they were gone, Marco, with Amalia and her mother, kept their places beside Luigi's table, chatting together in low tones. Luigi's refusal to bet with the stevedore and his willingness to bet with his opponent had unsettled Marco's mind all the more. Marriage, with him as with most of the people of his class, meant just money enough to pay the priest and to defray expenses of existence for a month. He would take his chances after that. They might both go to work again then, she back to her beads and he to his boat, but they would have had their holiday, and a holiday is the one thing valued above all others by most Venetians. Should he lose, however, he must give up the girl for the present—the prettiest in all the quarter. And then perhaps Beppo Cavalli's son might find favor again in her eyes.